The Paperclip
by chickspaghnet
Summary: The Institute is gone, and the Commonwealth has been liberated at last. But peace and prosperity is far from certain as two rival idealistic groups stand on the edge of a Cold War. Meanwhile, a Courier is sent to the Commonwealth on a secret mission on the behalf of a mysterious Mr. House. What will happen when the Brotherhood, the Minutemen and House fight over Boston? Find out!
1. The Personal Touch

The man slept in the dark recesses of a shadowy tower, overlooking his kingdom. A kingdom he had not founded, but seized and built upon. Vegas, the crown jewel of the Southwest. It would be here that he would begin to seize _all_ things.

In his crypt, deep within the heart of the Lucky 38, he lay dreaming. But his dreams were not of yearnings and desires hidden in the abstract subconscious. They were of pure ambition and scheming, running numbers and calculations, constantly plotting the next play.

The man - his name was once Robert Edwin House: a multi-billionaire business magnate and a respected innovator. In his time, he was a god amongst men. Wealthy, influential, a pure genius, one of the greatest minds of his generation. He was powerful, yet mortal. All efforts to achieve a higher state of being was hindered by his insignificant, human form.

The bombs changed that. They changed everything. They came down like a cleansing rain, wiping away all the weakness and incompetence - all the mistakes of the old world that House had come to know and loathe. As the bombs came down, the mistakes were culled. The wheat detached from the chaff, and only the strong remained.

And House had never been so strong.

In his time, he was a god amongst men. Now, he was a god amongst all things. He was pure, raw data carrying information of a bygone era in a broken world. He was everywhere, watching and controlling. He commanded thousands of loyal soldiers, all with his mind. He was limitless and constant - he was perfect.

There were those that wore their paper crown, those that pretend to know true power - Caesar, the NCR, the Brotherhood of Steel: he despised them. If they only knew what he alone - one man - could achieve, they'd fall on their knees in front of him and crown him king.

And yet they resisted. They clung to the follies and false ideals of the past while House looked toward the stars. If only they knew...they'd fall in line like the rest of Vegas.

But that didn't matter now. Now, everything was about to change.

_Run it again_, he ordered.

The various systems whirred and spun. A voice appeared.

_It's the same as before, _the voice said. _It hasn't changed since yesterday._

_Run it again, _he repeated, more forcefully. The systems whirred once more.

_Three point six… no… five point- no, it's climbing now. Nine… Thirteen… Wait..._

House smiled.

_It's… it's eighteen point two._

_Which can only mean? _asked House.

_They're alive. They are there, and they are still alive._

The man in the crypt felt his face curl into a triumphant smile.

_Victor, _he called out into the void. _Summon my Courier. It is time to begin Phase Four._

The smile— though vaguely felt, grew wider, as long-forgotten muscles pulled in the darkness. Soon he'd have it - everything he sought after, everything he hoped to achieve. And once he had it...he'd be unstoppable.

Then the void called back.

_Uh, sir? He won't answer your call._

The smile disappeared.

* * *

"There, that oughta do it."

"...Yeah, that'll definitely do it, soldier. You know I ain't fixing that."

"Wasn't asking you to."

In the far corner, the phone lay broken on the floor, sparking, smoking wreck. In truth, Raul had half a mind to do the same thing - the damn thing was making a racket, and the ghoul was nursing a terrible hangover. But rules had been set a long time ago in the Presidential Suite, and one of them was to never fire guns inside. Sure it was broken almost every night, but Raul was sober now (more or less), and he figured common courtesy would inhibit such things.

The culprit, the moody sniper known as Craig Boone, had just broken the household rule, the barrel of his rifle still smoking. He sat there, across the table, polishing the recently fired gun, occasionally pausing to take sips of coffee. He claimed to like the feel of smooth burning metal running through his hands. Of course, Raul figured that Boone didn't have much going on inside, feeling wise. The guy didn't feel pain.

They'd been sharing the common rooms of the Presidential Suite for a while - him, Boone, Cass, Veronica and the Courier. They were a rowdy bunch and they had more fights then most housemates, but Raul figured it was decent living these days. He knew Cass definitely felt suffocated within the Lucky 38, often crashing god knows where most nights. But Raul figured that compared to sleeping in a rusty shack or having hungry super mutants as housemates, the Lucky 38 wasn't all that bad. At least Boone didn't snore. Come to think of it, he never saw Boone sleep.

"You know, you could have just unplugged the phone," said Raul, breaking the silence.

"That's why people carry these things," said Boone, motioning to his rifle. "So they don't have to get up close to do the job."

"So you're just lazy, is that it?" said Raul.

"No. Just efficient."

"That right?" said Raul. "Well your efficiency made the whole room smell like gunpowder."

"I like the smell. Covers up the stench of ghoul."

Raul sighed. "Well, you get to explain to the head honcho why nobody's been picking up lately."

"Yeah, like he ever comes down here."

And it was at that moment that the doors flew open.

* * *

"_YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED."_

"_Pinche puta!_" groaned Raul, covering his ears. "I said, he's _not here!_"

"_YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED. SU PRESENCIA SE REQUIERE._"

"Oh, how nice. He really thinks of everything," muttered Boone, not looking up from his rifle.

Raul hated robots. He liked machines, but he hated robots. Machines didn't make a fuss when you cracked them open. And machines rarely came with high powered machine guns, missile launchers and blaring loudspeakers like a Securitron did. Especially this Securitron. The robot towered over him, blaring House's message in his face with the stern glare of the policeman fixed on the screen.

"See, _now _this is a good time for the gun!" said the ghoul.

"I thought you were good with fixing things? Just turn the fucking thing off," snapped Boone.

"Yeah, brilliant idea. And maybe you can help scrape the little pieces of ghoul off the wall after this thing decides to use its missiles on me."

"_YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED. YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED."_

Boone threw his gun down in surrender. "Alright. Call the guy," he relented.

Raul sighed and turned to the noisy robot. "Let me speak to House."

The Securitron suddenly stopped blaring. "I'm sorry, but I do not understand your request," said the robot calmly, with an almost apologetic tone.

"_Ay Pendejo,_" muttered Raul. "Err, command override. Vocal audio House, Robert. Access source code. Gamma three...uh, delta tango cinnamon."

The screen on the Securitron suddenly fizzed, and the policeman was gone. In a split second, another face appeared - a well-dressed man with groomed hair and a sly grin.

"Only two people know that access code, and I've never told a soul," said Robert House. "Tell me where you learned it or I'll skin you."

Raul shrugged. "Your man's a shitty card player, and he likes to bet weird things. And it's a lot of fun to say," the ghoul said with a chuckle. "_Delta tango cinnamon._"

"That's a class one breach of security, and a felony against the state. I should have your tongue ripped out just for saying that code," said House.

"Well that would make things a bit quieter around here," muttered Boone.

Raul scratched his head. "Yeah, speaking of which...the presence you requested ain't here, boss."

"Preposterous," spat House. "It's a Saturday morning. No doubt he's asleep, passed out in a puddle of his own shame in the bed that _I _gave him.

"Well, he ain't. We all started drinking here, yeah. But we eventually drifted off to other places. Cass said something about going up to Montana. I went down to the Wrangler. Boone here hardly leaves home base. And Veronica and your guy went off who knows where."

"I couldn't care less about any of that," said House, a touch angrier. "If you don't tell me where he is this instant, I'll evict all of you from the premises - _and you'll exit through the window._"

Raul shrugged again. "Well, you answered your own question already, chief."

"_What?!"_

Boone sighed and stood up from his breakfast. He got up close to the Securitron, staring House down through his shades.

"It's a Saturday morning," said the sniper, cryptically.

House was becoming impatient. "_And?!_"

"Which hotel is always complaining about messes every Saturday morning?"

There was a short silence as House realized what Boone had meant. Suddenly, the screen on the Securitron blinked, and in another moment, House was gone.

"You're welcome," grumbled Boone.

"Least he didn't ask about the phone."

* * *

It didn't matter on the time or the season. Night or day, winter or summer, Gomorrah was the busiest hotel in Vegas. Cachino liked it that way. Sure, it meant more money in his pocket, but that was a given. It also meant that everyone was too busy to chase him down to fix something or ask for something, and he could dedicate his time for his personal affairs - namely enjoying his own merchandise in the comfort of his private suite.

The Tops had gone to shit after Benny bought the farm. The Ultra-Luxe had lost its pull after certain members of their White Glove Society were outed as cannibals. Treachery and savagery - at least Gomorrah was honest about the vice it sold. And it sold nothing more than pure sin - gambling, chems, booze, snatch, all was yours for a very good price. And these days the hotel was pulling in more caps than ever. Gomorrah was now the premier tourist destination in Vegas.

Cachino sat at the counter of the bar of the main stage, absentmindedly drawing chicken scratches in his journal. He found that it gave off the impression to his subordinates that he was busy, and should not be disturbed. In truth, he was not. Cachino made it a point to do as little work as possible and enjoy as much as he could. As he sat at the bar, chicken scratching with one hand with a glass of whiskey in the other, all he could think about were the two girls up in his suite and the weapons-grade potent Jet he'd been saving in his desk for over a year. He figured he'd make them play around with each other, then fight for the Jet.

His bawdy daydreams were interrupted suddenly, as one of his subordinates tapped his shoulder cautiously. Cachino's mood instantly soured.

"What the fuck do you want, dipshit? Can't you see I'm busy?" flashed Cachino.

"Sorry boss, but…" began the Omerta. He looked nervous.

"Well? The fuck is it?"

* * *

"And they've been there how long?"

"Ten minutes boss."

"And you're just telling me fucking now?"

"Well, they haven't been doing anything. Trudy's been keeping them busy, but...they just keep demanding entry to the hotel."

Cachino swore loudly. This was the last thing he needed. A troop of Securitrons taking up space in his lobby, demanding entrance. No warrant or nothing.

There were six of them, almost taking up the entire Lobby room, pushing guests aside. People were pointing and whispering among themselves. Yes, Cachino thought. This was definitely the last thing he needed. With the Tops dead and the Ultra-Luxe shunned, the last thing he needed was for Gomorrah to be flooded with law enforcement chasing away the money.

"What do they want? I mean, are they here for somebody? Something?" asked Cachino. _And what can I hide away before they find, _he thought.

"They've just been repeating the same thing boss, you know, 'don't get in the way of executive business and all that pizazz. Should I get Goon?"

In the corner at all times, like a silent shadow in the casino, stood Goon - the hulking Super Mutant bouncer that House's lackey had hired for the hotel. Goon was huge, green, ugly, and mean, like all of his ilk - but unlike other Super Mutants, Goon was special in that he was not motivated by murder or war. Instead, Goon was interested in the collection of the "shiny plastic circles" that humans used. He was paid well, relatively, compared to most other super mutants. Luckily the mutant hadn't learned the concept of haggling, holding out, or reading the fine print yet, so the contract Cachino wrote him was deliciously profitable. Although he did often wonder what he'd do if the mutant decided to renegotiate. Probably relocate to Freeside for a while. Let House's boy take care of it. After all, he set the damn thing up in the first place. The only problem with Goon was that Cachino never felt comfortable giving him orders.

"Forget Goon," barked Cachino. "We don't need Goon. I'll handle this."

* * *

He gave the club a few practice swings, whipping it through the air, as he walked through the casino floor to the lobby. It felt good. It felt light. It felt like it had tasted blood before. Cachino had bought it off House's boy - apparently, it belonged to Driver Nephi, the raider with a penchant for beating NCR soldiers to death. Cachino hadn't used it for much besides decorating his office, but he was willing to give it's other uses a shot.

"Alright tin cans, here's what I want to know!" Cachino called out to the Securitrons, flexing the golf club over his shoulders. "What the hell is local law doing in _my_ reputable hotel?"

"_Make way. You are obstructing us_" said the Securitron. "_Allow us entry, or you will be forcibly moved._"

Cachino had to laugh. "Me? You're gonna remove _me_ from _my _hotel? That's rich - I didn't know - what, you got some kind of comedy enhancer in there or something?"

"_Gomorrah. General Manager. Designation, Cachino. Do not interfere with executive business_," blared the Securitron.

"Oh that's what this is, eh?" said Cachino angrily. "Cause your _executive business _is interfering with my _casino _business. So why don't you scram, tin can? And you tell your boss he wants to conduct business in _my _hotel, he comes through _me _first."

Brave words, Cachino thought. But he figured that if the robots were going to force their way in, they would have done it by now. Besides, Cachino was still thinking about the two girls and the Jet in his suite. And every minute he was spending away from it dealing with House's robots was just making him increasingly angry.

Silence. The tin can stood there, angry policeman staring silently back at him.

Cachino frowned. "You hear me? You defective or what?" he said, rapping the Securitron firmly on its side with his golf club. "Get it through your fuckin' Motherboard, you metal piece of-"

The Securitrons face blinked. Suddenly the policeman was gone, and a handsome man with slicked black hair appeared. It turned to regard Cachino.

"If you so much as _dent_ my Securitrons…" began Robert House. "If you even get a scratch on _me_, and I'll have you torn apart. Limb by limb."

* * *

"M-Mister House?!" stammered Cachino, turning a pale white. All bravado he had mustered seemed to vanish at once as he dropped the club like it was white-hot. His voice went up six octaves, turning into a high, obnoxious squeak.

"Apologies sir. Didn't know it was you, sir. Thought the robots were intruding in my business sir. Not you sir. You can intrude all you'd like sir, please. Didn't mean nothing by it sir, begging your pardon…"

"I was told one of my employees had made ample use of your services last night," said House, cutting him off. "I'd like to speak to my employee."

"Absolutely Mr. House sir. No worries. And let me apologize again for my, uh, how you call em, threats against you, I'd never vandalize your property sir."

"Bring me to my lieutenant, and I'll forget your existence entirely."

"Yes sir. Of course sir. Right away sir."

_Imbecile_, House thought to himself. It was because of people like him that House ever considered expanding his hired personnel beyond machines. The last thing he wanted to do was to spend a day negotiating with gormless mooks like Cachino about casino business when he could instead focus on more important matters. Having a mouthpiece allowed him the convenience of conveying his will without actually having to be in the same room as such people. On any other day, House would have had the Courier collect Cachino's tongue; teach him how to hold it properly. A shame it was his own Lieutenant that House was searching for. House wondered who he could hire to collect _his _tongue once House found him. Although he doubted that many could. He stored the idea back into his data banks, under "continuity plans." That folder was growing at a concerning rate as of late.

As Cachino led House and his host through the casino, the guests stared and whispered amongst themselves. House? Here? He could never be. I thought he never left the Lucky 38. Some other gamblers were already clearing the floor, rushing towards the exit, leaving empty tables behind with chips ripe for plunder. They'd have learned by now. When Securitrons came knocking at your door, it wasn't because House was making social calls. Someone was in trouble. And nobody had ever gotten in the way of House's judgement and lived.

"They'll be in the V.I.P room, sir. Eh, Joanna's old place…" said Cachino, leading House and his securitrons through the hotel. "...Err, if I could trouble you with a, uh...small matter sir?"

House said nothing - for he cared not for small matters. But Cachino spoke anyway.

"…Well, I know you let them have free run of all the casinos but...a-and I know, yeah, it's well deserved after what they did, but...they've practically been living here, drinking all the booze, enjoying all the merchandise - you know the Tops and the Ultra-Luxe, they don't have the amenities that we have, so I can understand why they like it here, but uh… well, booze and cooch aren't cheap, is all I'm saying."

"You want me to suspend their casino privileges, is that it?"

Cachino nodded meekly.

"I'll consider it," said House, honestly meaning it. If it meant not having to hunt them down for work ever again, he saw no reason why they should keep enjoying their privileges.

* * *

Cachino knocked for the third time. No answer.

"Well either they're dead in there...or no one's home," said the hotel manager.

They were standing on the upper balcony of the Gomorrah courtyard, where the "higher-priced" merchandise was usually found. The lower level was essentially a flesh pit, a free-for-all of decadence, where business was done in public view, and where orgies were not uncommon. The upper levels were more discrete, offering a more relaxed service to higher paying customers.

The VIP room had been formerly occupied by Gomorrah's number one attraction, the lovely Joanna, until the prostitute disappeared one day. That cost a surprisingly large dent in revenue. The new "elite class" he had bought from an Arizona slaver to replace her were not entirely on Joanna's level, House was told, but they soon would be, with the right "encouragement". A hulking super mutant named Goon was hired shortly after - there had been zero issues with the newest batch ever since.

"Well?" demanded House. "Don't you have a key?"

"Well, uh, sir...it's hotel policy, you know...we don't interrupt guests privacy...especially when they're...busy, you know…" said Cachino nervously.

A silent stare from House was all Cachino needed.

"Point taken, sir. Let me see what I can do…" he said, digging through his pockets, retrieving a large silver key and quickly unlocking the door. He turned the knob once. Twice. Three times, pushing inwards.

"The door is, uh...barricaded, sir," Cachino said meekly.

"Get out of the way," House ordered impatiently. He sent a signal to his accompanying Securitrons.

_Break it down._

* * *

The Securitrons busted down the door. Inside the room on the bed were two women as naked as the day, one of them buried face down between the legs of the other.

"Oh j-jeez…" stammered Cachino.

One woman was buried face first between the other girl's legs, spread open like a newspaper, her naked behind on display to the world while the other moaned her approval quite loudly. Both seemed to be totally unaware of their recent visitors. And if the two were shy, they definitely didn't look like it.

Ages ago, when he was still flesh and bone, such a sight might have excited Robert House, but not anymore. He was far beyond such trivial cravings as arousal. To him now, human sexuality was alien to him: he viewed it as disgusting animals not being able to control their carnal impulses. Of course, he had his female companion program, Jane. But that was more about spite than sex. Jane was an actress that had once rejected a young House when he was still foolish enough to fall in love. Now, she could reject him no longer.

"_Ahem,"_ House cleared his throat loudly. The girl with the free tongue looked up.

"_Ooh, _Veronica!" exclaimed the girl, a prostitute by the looks of it. "You didn't say you were inviting the boss to play!" she teased, her voice as sweet as honey.

The customer looked up and turned around. Her brown hair was tangled and unkempt. Her face was flushed and sweaty. Under her eyes were the sallow bags of someone who'd been getting slashed all night. She was drunk. Or high. Likely both. Clothes, empty bottles, and stray pills littered the floor.

"Do I need to fucking explain the meaning of a closed door in Gomorrah?" shouted Veronica Santangelo. Her wandering bloodshot eyes finally settled on House's face. Inside them were flames of pure spite. "Oh, look. It's the man on T.V," she spat.

Mr. House narrowed his eyes. House and Veronica Santangelo shared little love for one another. It was House after all, who ordered the destruction of the Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel. It was Six himself who flipped the switch that blew that tiny bunker in the hidden valley into a million pieces.

The former scribe had not taken the Brotherhoods destruction well. She knew who had ordered their destruction, of course, even though House never told a soul. But she never learned who had committed the deed. All she knew was that her home, her closest family, had suddenly been blown sky-high, wiped from the map of Vegas because a vicious bureaucrat wanted them gone, and that there was _absolutely nothing_ she could do about it. Ever since, the near virginal Scribe had taken to the finer vices that Gomorrah offered.

"And just where might Six be?" demanded House.

"What, you think he was here? I don't share meals, buddy. And he ain't the kind of type I take sloppy seconds from," spat Veronica. "Don't you have a monorail to fix? Get the fuck out already!" And the former esteemed Brotherhood Scribe spat one last time at House before turning back towards her quarry; and like a rabid predator, she dug into her prey.

And then Cachino spoke up - "Oh wait… you're looking for the Courier?"

House spun around in anger. The doddering manager looked sheepish.

"Missed the boat, I'm afraid. He left last night-"

In another split second, Cachino was suddenly hanging by his legs over the balcony handrails, held up only by House's arm. The fall wouldn't kill him. But it sure would hurt.

"_JESUS CHRIST! P-PUT ME DOWN!" _yelled Cachino, his face quickly turning blue. Onlookers from the first floor were gasping and pointing up at the spectacle.

"You have _wasted_ my time enough already," snarled House. "And hotel managers are _a cap a dozen_."

"_I THOUGHT SHE WAS YOUR EMPLOYEE! YOU WEREN'T SPECIFIC!" _Cachino exclaimed desperately.

House began to loosen his grip.

"Woah, woah, woah WOAH WAIT!" Cachino's leg began to slowly slide through House's robotic claw. "I know where he is! _I KNOW WHERE YOUR GUY IS!" _he wailed.

"_Where?!" _barked House. "_WHERE IS HE?!"_

* * *

On the grimy street corner of the shithole that was Freeside, The Courier lay defeated, not by any conventional means, but by his own hand. He'd been defeated by his number one enemy yet again: the drink.

There was a steady, throbbing vein on his temples as his brain fought back against the waves of the substance-induced pain that followed. His head was beating like a line of steel pans playing a tropical tune. He didn't remember much about the night before. He'd gone down to Gomorrah with Veronica...he had insisted on playing the tables before he visited the girls…someone was caught cheating and there had been a fight… he remembered getting pretty angry… hang on...was he the one who cheated?

_You should write a book,_ Six heard in his brain. A dull echo. He was starting to wake up.

His eyes did their best to flicker open. The sharp pain of morning dust on the inside of his eyes made him quickly shut them down again. Six had managed to catch a glimpse of his surroundings though.

He was sitting up against the wall of a ruined building, across the street where Mick and Ralph's was located. Empty bottles surrounded him. His clothes were torn, drenched, and soaking wet. He was in fact, covered in different fluids; Alcohol, sweat, vomit, blood, piss, and something that he just hoped weren't feces, painted his clothes. Whatever he was sitting in, he just hoped it wasn't him, but it sure was wet. He wanted to say that he reeked, but the hangover had left him completely congested. So with a blocked nose, crusty eyes, and ringing ears, Six was essentially blind to the entire world. He gripped his fingers, feeling something hard and slim in his hand. He shook it blindly, and heard the sound of splashing liquid. His last bottle.

It wasn't essentially prudent to be blind in such a dangerous place like Freeside, even these days. True, Mr. House's "reforms" to Vegas had brought a certain amount of economic prosperity to the land. The casinos pulled in more caps than ever before. Tourism was at a record-breaking high. More and more places in New Vegas began to acclimate to the new order. Raiders were leaving the state in droves, and the roads were starting to look safe again. But as House proved, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. The class difference was greater than ever, and the poor were still as poor as they were before. Freeside continued to be the lawless ghetto it was famous for. If you could get past the "Dirt Strip," as the locals called it, into Vegas, you were safe. If you couldn't, you'd quickly be cut down by the roving gangs of thugs that patrolled the streets of Freeside, and you'd die as another dumb tourist in a big city.

But Six chanced the gangs were smart enough to leave him alone at this point. Regularly cleaning out Freeside of it's filth was like a second hobby to him nowadays. Anyway, he didn't need to see to kill someone. Or be sober for that matter.

_Here's to Freeside_, he thought, pulling back blindly on his last bottle of whiskey. He had a hand in it after all. He was the one who helped House take over Vegas when no one even thought he was still alive. He helped orchestrate the defeat of both the Legion and the NCR at Hoover Dam. He was the one who drove the NCR from Vegas on House's orders, and sent them packing back to California. Now House ruled Vegas through his vast, ever-increasing army of Securitrons. The Free Economic Zone of Vegas wouldn't be possible if it wasn't for Six, and he made sure House didn't forget it.

He was a hero; or at least, that's what would be written in the books years from now by historians, carefully bought for and threatened. Those that drew breath currently however might have had different views. To some, Six was a paragon, a wasteland ranger, leading the way to a better future. To others, Six was the architect to some of their worst days on earth. They called him the Courier - a term of endearment more than anything. It had been years since Six handled goods for the Mojave Express. They also called him the Prince of Vegas, the Wildcard, and Robert's Right Hand Man. In Arizona, they called him the Child of Pluto, the Pale Lord of Death. The _Daily Ranger _of New California had a less flattering name for him: "the Houseboy."

Nobody knew his real name, not even House. Not that they ever would. He'd been "Six," ever since the day he rose from the grave in Goodsprings. He had a real name of course, but that was long forgotten once the bullet entered his skull. That was his rebirth. Six he was born. Six he would die.

_You should really write a book, _he thought, once more. It was that voice in his head again. He knew that voice. It was the same one that had once told him to chase down his would-be killer through the Mojave desert. It was the same one that made him save a beautiful girl he once knew, reuniting her with her lover. It was the voice that kept him awake, kept him entertained. It was passion and enthusiasm, raw feeling, sense of fun and adventure and creativity. It was pure driving motivation urged by natural emotion. It was deep, wrathful anger and hell-bent revenge. It was love and joy. It was the voice that Six referred to as his Right Brain. And right now, his Right Brain was telling him to write a book.

_Yes, a book. What about? Well...you of course. Your story. You probably have a story worth telling. Maybe two._

He held the bottle up to his lips. The liquid inside was warm and sour. Tasted bitter and metallic. Must have gone bad.

_The Adventures of Courier Six, I'd call it. Or is that too on the nose? Something more poignant would sell better._

There was a knock on his frontal lobe, a quick _ratatat_. He held his ear to the door and heard thus:

_What the fuck are you talking about, writing a book? You don't know how to write a fucking book._

That was the other voice. Six called it the Left Brain.

For every foolish idea or notion the Right Brain sent through the Courier's mind, the Left Brain stood over like a quality inspector on a factory line, picking out bad ideas and terrible moves before they could be put into motion. Sometimes, something would slip through the cracks, and Six would curse himself later, wondering where that other voice had been. The Left Brain was logical, unfeeling, cold, and efficient. It was the moneymaker behind the madness. It was the light in the mist. The Right Brain kept him going. The Left Brain kept him alive.

They fought constantly these days. They'd been fighting ever since Six returned from his short stint in the Big Empty. He had gone there seeking riches and power, with an intact, cohesive mind. He left, however, slightly less rich and a mind constantly at war with itself. Six had the pleasure of being probably the only person on earth that had his brain successfully removed and live. He was definitely the only person who had a chance to speak to his own brain. While it was _outside_ his body.

As you might have guessed, having your brain removed, and then shoved right back into your empty cranium might create some extraneous issues. The whole Big Empty ordeal itself had left Six a bit peeved once he got back to Vegas, but he never thought he'd suffer the effects long afterward.

Six was no stranger to neurological damage. One could probably write an entire doctoral journal on the things that had happened to his head. But even a bullet to the skull hadn't affected him as much as his trip to the Big Empty had. Since his departure of the Sink, the Courier was cursed to have a dual-mind. One of logic and reason, and one of passion and feeling. Two voices in his head. And they _never _stopped talking.

Six hit the bottle and chems a bit harder ever since. He was never one for such vices, but these days it was a necessity. It was his way of drowning out the chatter. Whiskey was the best way to silence the Left Brain. A few drinks down the hatch and only the Right Brain would remain, making Six fearless and passionate the whole night. The Left Brain was for the morning, who'd come back in spades, ready with scolding regrets. On the other hand, Mentats would bolster the Left Brain while choking out the Right Brain. Six would become robotic and unfeeling, capable of pulling off any mission without a hitch, any job without scruples, any task without distractions. He'd once tried to take both at the same time. To his surprise, both voices would shut off completely, leaving Six in a drooling, almost catatonic state. So that little cocktail was saved only for emergencies of sanity.

And yet they continued to argue. His brain was the one enemy Six couldn't simply put a bullet into, though there were times where even he was sorely tempted.

_You taught yourself to operate power armor. You taught yourself how to strip, clean, and fire an anti-material rifle. You taught yourself how to kill. How is this any different?_

_Who's buying books nowadays? Who can even read?_

_We can do it in pictures then. Easier for people to understand. Kids would love it._

_You don't know how to draw either, idiot._

Six groaned. His head was literally killing him. Besides the two idiots dueling it out in his head, his cranium felt like a super mutant was going to town on it with a rocket-sledge.

_I told you you'd feel like this, didn't I? I always do. If you spent as much time being productive as you are emptying bottles, maybe you could learn how to write a fucking book._

_Maybe he didn't want to hear your nagging for a while. So what? He rather listen to me than you. Least I'm fun._

_It's not supposed to be fun, dumbass. Wait...is that blood he's sitting in?_

Six felt the ground beneath him. Wet and warm, thicker than piss. He brought his hand up to his nose to smell. It was blood. But not his own.

He forced his eyes open. Dead bodies littered the street, all killed in various, messy ways. There was more blood: it caked the sidewalks and the walls of the ruined building. Empty smoking shells and various weapons were strewn around like discarded toys. He was surrounded by corpses - Freeside thugs. They hadn't wisened up after all.

_This is why you shouldn't drink anymore, _said Left Brain.

_Rather this than spend more time with you,_ replied Right Brain.

"And I suppose _this_ is your idea of community outreach?"

Six frowned. He was sure that the last voice wasn't his. Was he still hallucinating, he wondered?

"Get him up, and bring him back to the Lucky 38. Then find the King and bribe him: tell him whoever committed this massacre, it wasn't us."

Six opened his eyes.

The pale green face stared back at him, slicked black hair, self-satisfied smirk and all, superimposed on the screen of a Securitron.

"Oh. It's you," Six groaned.

"If I were you, I'd keep my mouth shut. You don't want to know how much trouble you've cost me already," said House.

There was the third voice in his life. The voice of his overbearing employer, Robert House. Where the Right Brain went right and Left Brain went left, House was the everlasting drive onward.

* * *

"You know why you're here, don't you?"

"I know it wasn't to offer me a drink," Six grumbled, rubbing the sand out of his eyes. He grimaced. The more sand he rubbed out, the clearer his vision became, letting the blinding green light directly into his retinas, searing them like steaks. The big man liked to keep the display brightness cranked up to eleven. Made for a good negotiating tactic when doing business, he supposed. After all, how can you swindle someone you can't see? Not that anyone would dare to try. The heavily armed Securitrons flanking House at all times prevented that. Besides, nobody had ever set foot in front of that screen besides Six, and Six's predecessor. And Six wasn't the swindling type.

He was in the Lucky 38 penthouse - the "boss's office," as it were. He was sitting in front of the giant screen, House surely staring a hole right back at him. Someone had gone through the trouble of washing him up and changing his clothes. He shuddered, only hoping it wasn't Jane. There were some lines even he wouldn't cross.

Six glared up at his employer through squinted eyes. The green face of Robert House stared him down right back. Six hated that damn face. Not only did it never change, leaving it impossible to discern what the man was thinking at any time, but Robert in his infinite genius, had somehow managed to program the most shit-eating, smug, self-satisfied avatar Six had ever had the displeasure to lay eyes on. But he wasn't stupid. He knew that wasn't what the man really looked like.

He wondered sometimes why he didn't just burn the House down, so to speak. He knew how to do it. He'd seen the terminal, the elevator leading to the crypt where the true Mr. House lay like a slumbering vampire. He wondered why, whenever House decided to chew him out or treat him like hired help like he was right now, that he never stormed down to that room and smashed that withered corpse's semi-alive brains in.

That was all Right Brain. Right Brain would propose it's plan, asking, "_Why don't we kill him today?"_

And then Left Brain would go, "_What about the armed Securitrons and the small fortunes he keeps paying us?_" And then the discussion would be tabled for a later date where the same thing would happen again. Being hired help had its perks, after all.

On paper, Six's official title was "Chief Security Officer." As CSO, he answered straight to the board of directors - of which House was the only member. House even had special business cards printed out for him, all with that title. But they both knew Six's job scope went far beyond security these days. If he had to be given a job title, a "doctor" was more appropriate. Six was there to remove any aches or pains that House suffered. "Pains in the neck," such as they were. If there was a problem, the doctor made them go away. And Six sure knew how to make House's problems go away.

The "corporate" life, such as it was, wasn't exactly what Six had in mind as a career choice. But it did come with its benefits. A luxury suite at the Lucky 38, access to an impressive arsenal of advanced weaponry and technology, free run of the casinos, and more bottle caps then Six knew what to do with. House had made Six a _very _rich man. Why stop now?

"So for what possible reason could you imagine why I summoned you?"

"'I don't know. Did you hear I have another snow globe to sell you?" Six asked sardonically.

A tense silence followed. Six sighed.

"Let's be honest. The only times you ever call me up here is either you got a job for me, or I'm in trouble."

"Succinct as always. So you know why you're here then," said House.

Six let out another deep sigh. "Alright, fine!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in defeat. "I'm the one who shot the damn sheriff of Primm."

It was the wrong answer. The screen practically exploded. "_You killed Sheriff Meyers?!_"

For once, Six was caught off guard. "That's not what I'm up here for?" he asked dumbly.

"_NO!"_ House boomed. "You bumbling fool! So it was _you _that spoilt that whole venture! I should have you hung from the damn balcony!"

Six winced. Someone must have cranked up the volume lately. He could feel his entire head vibrating. That, or he was still hungover.

"I put a four hundred cap _bounty _on the man who undermined my appointment of Sheriff. I promised to hang the miscreant off of the open window of the cocktail lounge. And it turns out the man responsible for this _entire COCKUP _was under my nose all along?!"

"You may be overreacting, sir."

"_OVERREACTING?!" _The room shook. Six felt his ears pop.

"Weeks of negotiating, planning, bargaining, _leagues _of effort put into place so as to install a compliant administration in the town of Primm, and you manage to kill him just a night into his inauguration. And what do you do to amend the problem?" House sneered. If the face could change, it'd be sneering too, Six thought. "You appoint a damn robot as Primm's new Sheriff."

"Robots are plenty compliant. Send a technician down there to reprogram it," murmured Six sleepily. God, his head was throbbing.

"Do you honestly think a damn _Protectron _of all things makes an efficient spy?!" House sighed. "Hopeless. You and your lot are all, utterly hopeless."

"My lot?"

"Your lovely companions. In fact, I had the pleasure of conversing with them today while I was searching for you. They take after you, you know. Each of them possessed the same lack of respect for their betters. Or themselves," said House.

The Courier sighed. "Here's the thing, sir. You pay me, I pay them. You want them to fall in line? I need the cash. I need the work. So let me tell you this: _don't think that I haven't noticed you pulling operations without me lately,_" Six said with narrowed, accusatory eyes. "I don't appreciate being cut out."

"Do not presume to tell me how to run _my _business," threatened House. "You've been unreliable as of late. Ever since you got back from your 'vacation,' you've either been buried in a bottle of whiskey or strung out."

"These past ten years have made you complacent. Where has that Courier of old gone? The one that single-handedly took the Hoover Dam from both the Legion and the NCR? The one that I didn't have to search through the entire city for whenever I had an assignment for him?"

"I'll ask him when I see him."

House sighed. "We could have been something you know. Paragons of the Free Economic Zone of Vegas. Instead, you spend your days killing whores and fucking ghouls. Or was it the other way around?"

Six snorted. "Well, if we're talking about last Saturday, then you'd be surprised, because the Atomic Wrangler has this one girl who-"

"Spare me the tales of your debauchery. I don't have the stomach for it. I shudder to imagine what decadent pastimes you degenerates come up with," replied House.

Six rolled his eyes. Mr. House did use to talk about how much he hated Caesar but he sure did talk like him. Pretentious jabberers, both of them. Six wondered how much House knew that he was not so unlike Caesar as he would have liked.

"And if you roll your eyes at me one more time, I'll crucify you in the damn fields and let the birds feast on them," House fumed.

_All he's missing is that stupid feathered cloak_, Six thought. "Beg your pardon, sir. Still got sand in my eyes," he said, pretending to rub them clean.

"Well, get the shit out of your ears while you're at it, I require your full attention," House barked.

Then, his tone suddenly changed. "I have a job for you. A job of utmost importance."

Six raised an eyebrow. "Another spy?" he asked. Hunting down NCR spies had become his main job nowadays as Head of Security. And Six was very good at his job. From detection, to capture, to execution: all of it was done with aplomb. He was collecting NCR flags as easily as he was collecting his bottle caps. Occasionally he bagged a Legion _Frumentarii_, but those were rare for two reasons. One, the Legion had reportedly all but given up on Vegas. According to House's own spies in the Arizona territories, the leadership had broken down into a ruling council, all with different motivations, more interested in fighting among themselves than becoming the conquering empire that Caesar has envisioned (House had made it a point to show Six the reports; he wanted to show him what happened to a nation when rulership was divided). Suffice to say, a Legion invasion was the least of Vegas's worries these days. And two, unlike NCR spies, hunting down _Frumentarii _actually came with a degree of difficulty. They knew how to blend into their surroundings, unlike their rivals. And so, the men and women that usually hung from the balconies of the Lucky 38 were mostly that of the Californian variety.

"'No. The NCR has reportedly scaled back on such activities, focusing their 'manpower,' as it were, on ending their famines. I don't think we'll see another Californian for another year or so, unless they're refugees," said House. "This is more important than that."

"Okay. Then what is it?" asked Six. "And if you want me to do more lab tests for those eggheads down in R&D, you can stick that up your hard drive."

House spoke firmly. "The Institute has been destroyed."

"Oh…" Six's eyes widened in realization. "_Oh._ It's time, huh? Your special project?"

"Yes. The stars are in our favor and the time is right. Everything we've worked so hard for has been leading up to his moment," said House. "It is time to begin Phase Four."

Six perked up. It had been a long time since House had talked about anything regarding the mysterious Phase Four. Six didn't know anything about it, besides the fact that whatever it was, House was anxious to have it done as soon as possible. _Too _anxious. That intrigued the Courier.

"You'll recall the Institute of course. I believe I briefed you about them a while ago?" asked House.

"Yeah...the Institute." Six scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Some wacko scientists hiding out in Boston somewhere. Advanced technology, sinister intentions. Am I getting that right?"

"A long time ago, I sent a small scouting probe to the Commonwealth. I didn't expect to find anything of value: I had sent scouts to every corner of the United States and found nothing. Why would this be any different?" said House.

"When my scout arrived, it found nothing but ruins - ruins and small pocketfuls of survivors, just like the rest of the country. Just when I was about to recall my scout, that is when I discovered something. Strange energy readings, mysterious and very advanced signal interference all across the EM spectrum. The air itself: it was thick with electrical wave-data. Do you know what that means?"

Six shook his head. "Your robot was busted?"

"Not quite. That much signal interference could only mean one thing: someone was using very, _very _advanced technology capable of canvassing the entire Commonwealth with its trace signatures. Does that sound familiar to you?"

"No…" said Six slowly. Then it dawned on him. "Wait…you're not saying…?"

"_Someone_, _somewhere_, had perfected the Molecular Relay. The very same thing I had been working on ever since I resurrected our research sectors," said House.

"The Institute!" Six exclaimed.

"Precisely. I sent more advanced scouts back to the Commonwealth shortly after, to interrogate the local settlers. The subjects all fearfully spoke of the same, mysterious, and technologically advanced cabal of scientists haunting the Commonwealth: the Institute. It couldn't have been a coincidence."

"Of course you already familiar with our sustained investment in molecular teleportation research. The prototype we've been working on for years."

"Am I ever…" scowled Six.

"It's come a long way since its inception. But, while it is advancing in its latent stages, it still cannot fully support a full molecular relay, leaving the whole thing a bit...shall we say, _incomplete._" If House could smirk, he was surely smirking now. "You'll forgive me, of course."

He was referring to Six's arm: a fitted cyber prosthetic. After consenting to be one of the first lab rats for House's prototype, a little accident had occurred during testing two weeks ago. In one moment, Six was flung through time and space, the clean confines of House's lab disappearing from view, racing past like a steam train. A second later, he found himself half a mile south of Vegas, on the designated target location...missing everything below his right elbow. It had been lost in the molecular transfer.

The replacement was fitted shortly after. A state-of-the-art cybernetic limb, capable of carrying and gripping ten times the normal human strength. Six tried not to feel sour about his lost arm. After all, this wasn't his first cyber implant. He, in fact, had _eleven _different implants plugged away in different parts of his body. Sub-dermal armor, optics enhancers, a hypertrophy accelerator; the list went on and on. He wondered how many it would take to not even be considered human anymore. Sometimes, he wondered if he passed that threshold a long time ago. Still, though, he made a point to discreetly kill the technicians anyway. That arm had been with him for some of the best parts of his life. It was only fitting that it got its revenge.

Six sat in front of House now, scratching in between the hard titanium plates of his arm. "What's an arm between friends, eh?" he said soberly.

"I'll assume your satisfied with the replacement then?"

"Well, it makes for good bar conversation," Six said dryly. "And I can crush a man's throat with one grip, so there's that."

"Well, my team has been making great strides on the prototype so far, or so I'm told. Senior Technician Kenneth is supposed to be giving me a report any minute now."

"Don't think he'd tell you much."

"And why's that?"

"Because I imagine it'd be hard to talk with a crushed throat."

A tense silence followed. "What happened to 'an arm between friends?'" House asked angrily.

Six shrugged. "He wasn't my friend," he said simply.

House made a sound similar to a very disgruntled sigh, before powering on.

"Needless to say, I was _quite _curious how this 'Institute,' had managed to do what even I could not. So I went digging through some very old files - I still have access to the databases of the old Commonwealth Institute of Technology."

"I'm not familiar. Must have been ancient," said Six.

"Very. In the databases, I found some old schematics - incomplete notes mostly, all of the various projects. One of which, outlined a raw construction of the process of molecular teleportation, titled 'Project ADAM.' Written by a former student. His name was _Robert Edwin House_. Yours truly," he finished pompously, obviously expecting Six to be impressed.

"Very clever," Six said, trying not to sound too bored. "So if you have the notes, why can't you finish the prototype?"

"Because they are _incomplete_, you dunce. I never got around to finishing these projects; they were all just theoretical. And yet, it seems that someone has finished what I started."

_As they often do_, Six thought to himself. He could feel the Right Brain perking up again with murderous intentions.

"The fact that the Molecular Relay is being used in the same city where I wrote those notes so many years ago leads me to believe that the old CIT and whatever group spawned this current-day Institute are one and the same."

"So let me guess. You want me to steal back your old research?"

"I want _everything_ the Institute has. If they've been working off of _my _research, everything they are, everything they've done, everything they _have_, has been solely because of me. Which makes whatever they currently have rightfully mine," House fumed. "But...yes. If nothing else, I must have their molecular relay technology. Imagine what I could do with just five working teleporters, stationed strategically across the Mojave."

"Would make commuting between jobs easier, sure," remarked the Courier. "But why do this now? You said the Institute was destroyed. How could anything be recovered?"

"Two years ago, all signal interference I had found on my first scouting had suddenly vanished. I sent along yet another scout. It came back with grave news. The Institute had been destroyed, blown to the heavens, supposedly, by its enemies. For two years, I put a moratorium on Phase Four. I was this close to scrapping it completely…until the signal waves were detected once more, yesterday. Weaker, not as widespread, but still there. The Molecular Relay lives on; so too, must the Institute. So this is what I require of you."

"Go to the Commonwealth. Locate the Institute, or whatever remains of it. Gather everything they have to offer, and kill anyone who gets in your way. And remember…" House spoke firmly. "Project ADAM must be retrieved at all costs. Is that understood?"

Six was still curious. "Who blew up the Institute? Should we be worried about them?"

"Who cares?" House snorted. "Idealistic groups like these blow up all the time. If you don't believe me, ask your friend, Veronica. Although, you should know, after all."

Six had to hold his tongue at that. "So how am I getting there? Because I sure as hell ain't huffing it on foot all the way to the Commonwealth," he asked.

"No. Time is against us. Considering the Institute's recent demise, any survivors are sure to be in hiding, being hunted by their enemies. Every day we waste, the smaller our window of success becomes."

"Alright then, so what do you want me to do? Grow some wings?"

A beat. House spoke matter-of-factly: "I thought it was rather obvious."

It dawned on Six what House was talking about. He groaned and anxiously scratched his cybernetic arm.


	2. The Nuclear Family

It was the warmest night in recent memory that the Commonwealth ever had. Strangely warm for autumn. Though the sun did not shine, it's ambient rays seemed to permeate through the darkness, boiling the night like a hot stove. It was humid, and Preston Garvey hated when it was humid; the wilting collars, the damp backs, that sticky wet feeling between your joints and crevasses, all of it was saturating in more ways than one. Not only that, insects of all kinds thrived in the mugginess. And Preston had no love for the particular insects that thrived in the Commonwealth. He'd seen enough men rendered dry, empty husks to know he'd rather not meet face to face with a thirsty bloodbug.

Not that Preston was not the outdoorsy type— far from it, really. Such was the life of a Minuteman, and Preston had wanted his own farm since he was ten years old, growing up in Quincy. Bloodbugs were just part and parcel of everyday life as a farmer in the Commonwealth.

After all, it was his job as the Chief of Homeland Defence to travel from settlement to settlement, working with civilians and settlement leaders to coordinate a defense against the many dangers of the Commonwealth. It was the job he was made for, and Preston knew he could never walk away from it. But on this humid night, he almost regretted turning down the General's invitation to his monthly poker game. Preston told him he was flattered, but too busy. Well, in truth, he was.

On nights like this, Preston would have loved to be playing cards indoors, beer in hand, kicking back with his good friends. But this night was different. This night, Colonel Garvey was busy making sure the world didn't end again before sunrise tomorrow.

Peering through his binoculars, he stood high atop the Kingsport Lighthouse, surveying the land in front of him with measured aptness. Preston supposed he looked similar to the images on the recruitment posters the Minutemen had released to the public: the lone scout, bravely scanning the horizon, ready to defend his home at a minute's notice. _Protect your family. Join the Minutemen._

He was in full regalia, wearing the slouch hat and blue duster of an officer of the Minutemen. Piper often told him that he never wore the uniform— rather, the uniform wore _him._ Flattery aside, this night it was wearing him tight, cloth clinging to his back like saran wrap, soaked with his sweat. The inside of his hat was completely wet, although Preston figured it wasn't all due to heat. From beneath the Lighthouse rang out a stern, commanding voice, affected by the static of a megaphone.

"_This is your last warning. Stand down, or we will have no choice but to shoot."_

The Children of Atom were a peculiar bunch. Peaceful missionaries on some days, murderous zealots on others. Dealing with them diplomatically was hard enough, and recruiting them for the settlement union was pointless— they didn't want to live with the "unwashed", and ditto the "unwashed." They were entitled to their religious freedoms, but the buck stopped once they started sacrificing their neighbors. So the Minutemen had always kept them at arm's length. In truth, they made Preston uneasy. He never knew if an Atomist was going to hand him a flyer or try to collect his head. In this moment, Preston reckoned that a thousand thirsty bloodbugs was a more preferable option than what he saw today.

No one was surprised when the Children of Atom had regained control over the rad infested Crater House outside of Kingsport that they called home. They'd been ousted from the spot before, but the Children, like flies to a turd, could never resist such a bountiful deposit of hot, toxic, skin-melting radioactive waste. Not to mention they were as stubborn as mold. It was no small wonder the children stood there now, hands locked, chanting prayers no sane man could comprehend, firmly dug into their encampment like a tick. So the question that Preston posed for himself as he surveyed the Children before him, was not why the Children of Atom had taken back the crater house outside Kingsport Lighthouse.

The question of the night was how the Children had gotten ahold of the Mark 28 nuclear bomb that they were currently huddled around. That, Preston was very keen to find the answer to.

* * *

"_He is coming with the clouds._

_And every eye should be blind with his glory._

_Every ear should be stricken deaf to hear the thunder of his voice._

_Let the men, women, and children of the earth come forth to gather and behold the power of Atom."_

"Shit, they're gonna have to buy us dinner if they keep teasing our dicks like this," murmured a voice from behind the Colonel.

"That's beautiful, Private," muttered Preston, still peering through his binoculars. "What is that, Voltaire?" The rest of the squad perched on top of the lighthouse snickered. Pvt. Blount shrugged, smiling.

"That's just a little bit of good old farm boy talk coming out of me, Colonel, I don't mean nothing by it."

"We got all night Private. You might as well elaborate," said Preston. Pvt. Blount sighed.

"Well sir, they're standing out in the open, huddled together in a stationary position, chanting at the top of their voices while standing in a glowing, green pit. If you were to tell me they didn't want their heads blown off right about now, I'd be hard-pressed to agree with you," said Blount. "We have two guns pointed at them, and those are just the ones they can see. Two more on the ridge. Two from the shoreline. Hell, I bet even the Rook is taking a gander over from Salem. I'm just saying, if they're looking to die tonight, 1st Battalion would be happy to oblige them."

Preston had to crack a smile. Typical Marines. They were the youngest branch of the Minuteman by far, an experimental batch that had yielded terrific results, yet they'd already secured a certain reputation amongst their fellow soldiers.

"The Children aren't afraid of dying, Blount," said Preston. "They're trying to send us a message: Atom is the only protection they need."

"No kidding," muttered Pvt. Locke, who was straddling the .50 Caliber, perched patiently on the lighthouse railing. "Well, message received then. Why don't we test their theory? Sir."

Just then, up from the stairs came Preston's second-in-command, Lt. David Ridley, his megaphone tucked underneath his arm. He was a sharp man and a capable leader. Many, including the General himself, often speculated that Ridley would be leading his own regiment one day. After Preston had offered to take him under his wing and play mentor, he was all but guaranteed it. Ridley was Preston's right-hand man.

"Bad optics," Preston replied to the marine, putting down his binoculars. "And I got a few questions for them. Report, lieutenant."

"It's like you said, sir. They're not budging," said Ridley.

"Well, what happened to diplomacy? I'd expect us to have a line up by now," complained Preston.

"No sir," said Lt. Ridley. "We sent a peacemaker earlier, and…"

"And? Where's he now?"

"In a box on the contingent commander's desk," replied Ridley, a grim expression on his face. "They don't want to move and they don't want to play nice. I don't see this ending well."

"Rarely does. Have they made any demands?" asked Preston.

"One: A 'cleansing' of the area," said Ridley. "Looks like they want Kingsport back from the Minutemen."

A collective snort rose up from the Marines. Even Preston had to crack a smile, albeit involuntarily; he knew what the Children of Atom had in mind when they meant, "cleansing."

"And I'm assuming that by not leaving immediately, they mean to blow us up with their nuke, correct?" said Preston.

"That sums it up pretty well, Colonel."

"And I didn't bring my Radaway," muttered Preston, reaching for his squawk-box. The Minutemen's newest, handiest additions to their arsenal, more powerful than any gun: walkie-talkies.

"This is Temper 4-1 Actual. All teams, be advised, Charlie Alpha is hot, I repeat, hot. Standby, eyes open, call for movements, over." Receiving his transmissions over on the far ridge of the crater was Temper 4-2, and perched on a rock in the middle of a wavy shore off the crater's edge was Temper 4-3. He was met with a chorus of acknowledgment.

"Here," said Preston. He tossed his binoculars to Ridley. "Tell me what you see." The lieutenant dutifully held the binoculars up to his eyes, and began to scan.

"Looks like typical Atomist business. The one leading the chant with the funny looking helmet: that one's the mucky-muck," murmured Ridley. "The priest?"

"Confessor," Preston corrected.

"Confessor. Yeah, pale skin with the goatee. He looks familiar, doesn't he?"

"Well, before the Minutemen took it, that man held the settlement we're now standing in," said Preston. "His name's Confessor Pollock, and he's been on our watchlist since the battle of Kingsport. He escaped, and since then, he's gone dark. Ditto his followers."

"And here he is now, king of the crater," remarked Ridley. "Well, explains why he wants us gone. Looks like they're rocking gamma and pipe pistols."

"And?" Preston said, motioning for him to continue.

"And…" Ridley began, handing Preston back the binoculars. "If we keep the high ground from a far range, their gamma rays will blossom out, and we'll maintain fire superiority. What?" Seeing his mentor shake his head, he knew he missed something.

"Nothing, it just feels as if I'm the only one who's wondering how the Children of Atom got their hands on one of Liberty Prime's toys," grumbled Preston. "They opened their negotiations with a nuke. That's a hell of a first move. And considering the timing, this all seems rather fishy."

"You think the Children know about the grand opening?" asked Ridley. Preston shrugged.

"If they've been reading the Publick, they'll have tomorrow's event memorized to the minute. That's not what I'm concerned about. Ask yourself: who's the last person who wants the ceremony to happen tomorrow?"

"Well, there's Colonel Shaw, the General…" mused Ridley. "These fellas in the crater, a few select taxpayers, matter of fact you're not so keen yourself—"

"Arthur Maxson, correct," finished Preston. "If I were to bet that someone would be trying to throw a wrench in tomorrow's plans, I'd throw my hat in for the Brotherhood."

"Makes sense."

"Now...who's the only person we know with a hefty supply of Mark 28 nuclear bombs under his nose?"

Ridley turned to him. "You're not saying…" he began. Preston shrugged again.

"I'm no Nick Valentine, but I have a hunch that Confessor Pollock didn't just find that thing washed up on the beach," said Preston with a grimace. The lieutenant looked gobsmacked.

"Sir...you're talking about an act of war," said Ridley slowly. "If the Brotherhood is supplying our enemies with nukes..."

"_This is Stormalong_," interrupted Colonel Shaw's voice from the shortwave radio. "_Come in Temper 4-1 Actual._"

Preston groaned. "I hear you, Stormalong. What's the problem?" he asked reluctantly.

"_Temper, interrogative: I'm sitting here, sipping my tea next to a five-ton hell-thrower, wondering why you haven't called in the artillery yet. It's a nice night, and I'd like to see some fireworks, over."_

"Negative, Stormalong," said Preston. "Not unless you want to be breathing in rads for the next month. They're sitting on a pool of radioactive waste. We drop a mortar on it, those fumes go sky high."

"_So will they, that's the point of an artillery strike. Besides, they fixed their date when they beheaded one of our men. Give me the word, and I'll send them to Atom myself, over."_

"No dice, Stormalong. We need this area clean, and you know that. And just to remind you, they have ordinance with them that's _way_ above their pay grade, and I know the General will want to know how they got it."

"_Well then Temper, I have another interrogative. Why don't you leave my marines out of it next time you want to sit around with your dick in your hand?"_

Preston cursed under his breath. He had always respected Colonel Shaw, the Minutemen's most experienced veteran and Chief of the Army, even coming to realizing something of a friendship with her at some times. But she had a certain way of doing things that often stepped on the toes of her fellow senior officers, often inconveniencing them which irked Preston to no end.

Shaw was a regular battle-axe, always ready to strike first, and fast. She was also a results-oriented closer, favoring the scorched earth policy over all others. 60% of missions conducted under her command often ended with the artillery option. Her thunderous reputation earned her the callsign, "Stormalong," after the legendary fearsome New England sailor. But her dedication usually stopped her from seeing the bigger picture. It was no wonder that the Marine Corps, the branch of soldiers she had founded and personally trained had taken after her.

"In case you haven't noticed already, _Stormalong_," began Garvey, speaking harshly into his radio. "This standoff with the Atomists is endangering a certain grand opening tomorrow. Now, unless you want to undo months of planning, I'd suggest you keep the line clear. _Over_."

"_Cheer up, Temper,_" said Shaw. "_Worst case, we postpone the event to let the air clear out, and you don't have to sputter in front of a mic tomorrow."_

Annoyed, Preston turned back to the direction of the Castle. Even from miles away, Preston could visualize Colonel Shaw smirk at him from atop her watchpost, sipping tea next to an artillery gun.

"_Come on, Garvey_," teased Shaw. "_Put a little light in my life."_

"Solid copy, Stormalong. Over and out." And with that final, brusque acknowledgment, Preston flicked the "off" switch on his radio.

"Sir?" asked Pvt. Blount. "How should we proceed?"

"Alright," sighed Preston. "They had their chance. Looks like you're getting your wish after all boys. I want direct fire on those Atomists. Locke, your target is the Confessor himself. Shoot to wound, Private. I got questions for him."

"Aye aye, sir," responded Locke.

"That being said, if any one of them looks like they're getting ready to arm that nuke, you're clear to put 'em down. But I want _someone _walking away from this," commanded Preston. He turned to his second-in-command. "Is the HazMat unit ready for sweep and retrieval?"

"Getting equipped as we speak, sir," said Ridley.

"Alright, once they're in position, we'll— yes Corporal?" asked Preston. The local comms operator was now in front of him, shortwave radio in hand. He was slightly out of breath, having run up the lighthouse steps.

"Colonel, incoming transmission from—"

"If that's Colonel Shaw," interrupted Preston angrily. "You can tell her to stick a mortar up her crotchety, old twa-"

"Sorry, sir, but it's not Colonel Shaw," said the comms operator. "It's...it's the Brotherhood of Steel sir."

Preston and Ridley exchanged a wary look. "Give it here," ordered Preston. The corporal handed him the radio. The line was already open:

"..._break-break, come in Kingsport. This is Vertibird unit, callsign Warhorse Six, channel one-six. We are approaching from the south over Nahant Bay, enclosing on your position in 30 seconds. Come in Kingsport, do you read me?."_

"I read you, Warhorse Six. This is 1st Battalion, 1st Marines, Colonel Garvey, acting commander of Temper Squad, " said Preston. "You're a long way from the Prydwen. Mind telling me what you're looking for up here? Over."

"_Be advised, Colonel, grid foxtrot two-five has been marked for a fire mission. We are commencing a strafing run, and you are danger close, I repeat, danger close. Over."_

"_What?!" _yelled Preston. "Negative, negative Warhorse, I have men on the crater's ridge, _do not engage!_"

"Uh sir?" said Ridley. "You might wanna see this!"

Preston turned back, but he didn't need to. He could feel them coming before they even announced their position. He heard the blades rapidly cut through the night air, a humming drone that echoed off the ocean waves, vibrating your bones and ears. He looked back.

Flying over the bay was a black silhouette over the moon, wings outstretched like an ebony raven in flight. He had to admit, there was always a certain amount of envy and admiration felt whenever he saw them fly overhead, wishing he too could soar above the Commonwealth. He appreciated their beauty...and now he knew the terror they instilled. It was a Brotherhood vertibird. And it was coming in fast.

"Warhorse Six," started Preston breathlessly, hollering into the radio. "Call off your strike, I have men in the field! Disengage, I repeat, disengage!"

In a matter of seconds, Warhorse Six had already flown over the heads of the Minutemen, casting a dark shadow over the Kingsport Lighthouse. The chopper's hum was deafening; it was a loud drone that shook the leaves off the surrounding trees and sent a blustering gale through the settlement. As the Vertibird soared over Preston, a cold voice answered him:

"_With all due respect, Colonel, we don't answer to you. Over and out,_" said the voice.

The vertibird elegantly drifted around the encampment, as the Children of Atom looked on from below. Some stood their ground, chanting away as if nothing had changed, unintimidated. Others— smarter or less faithful, Preston couldn't say— began to run for their lives. Maybe they knew what would happen next. The Vertibird wasn't just circling the crater. It was getting in position.

Preston couldn't make it out in the darkness, but he could recognize the sound: the familiar spin of a high powered minigun warming up. The next thing he saw was a blinding yellow light.

And in another second, there was hellfire.

"Shit! Contact! Temper 4-2, take cover!" shouted Preston, trying desperately to yell his instructions into his radio over the scream of bullets. "All teams, open fire! Make sure no one arms that nuke!"

Bursts of gunfire erupted from every Temper squad rifle, though they were little more than additional "pops" over the deafening scream of a vertibird gun. Warhorse Six mopped through the Atomists, firing in rapid, messy bursts. The Children were literally being cut to pieces, every one of them finding their own hail of high-velocity gunfire. Confessor Pollock, who had made a last-ditch effort to set of the nuke had suddenly found his hands ripped to pieces...and then the rest of him. Structures were torn down, and bullets ricocheted off of folded steel shacks, sending deadly whistling zips in every direction. One even bounced off the platform Preston and his team were standing on.

Warhorse Six made one last round around the crater, making sure their gunner was raining bullets down on nothing but corpses, jumping and wriggling with each new round fired into them as they disintegrated into red chunks. As the last body was pulverized, Warhorse Six, having completed another successful fire mission, flew off into the night, disappearing into the blackness from whence it came.

There were no children left in the crater. Only the mangled remains of victims of the Brotherhood's wrath. The night was silent once more...all but for the pained wails of a wounded man on the crater's ridge, screaming for a medic.

"Fucking bastards!" spat Pvt. Blount. Locke threw his hat to the ground in frustration.

Preston quickly drew his binoculars, bringing them up to his eyes. He scanned through the red, gooey remains of the Atomists until one thing caught his attention: a severed hand clutching onto the fin of the Mark 28 nuclear bomb, almost miraculously untouched.

"Chief? Your orders?" asked Ridley.

"Send in the HazMat unit," commanded Preston. "Tell them to check the status of the men on that ridge...and to get that goddamn bomb!"

* * *

"All in," Deacon said finally, pushing his pile of caps towards the middle of the table.

"No way!" exclaimed MacCready. "You gotta be kidding me!"

"Well, I fold," muttered Danse, placing his cards down on the table.

MacCready gave the cards in his hand a pained, quizzical look. You could practically see him running the numbers in his head: the suits, the cards dealt, the odds and calculations, all of it working his brain like a steam engine.

"I don't believe you. What do you have? An eight?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny what I have, Mac."

"Yeah right," said MacCready, more determined. "I don't buy it."

Deacon raised his hands in a shrugging motion, a coy smile on his face.

"You don't have the eight."

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't."

"You don't have the eight."

"Put up or shut up, Mac."

"Bull."

"Put up or shut up."

"Jesus Christ," groaned Hancock. "Any day now, ladies."

MacCready's eyes shifted into motion— his hand, Deacon, the bridge, Deacon, bridge, hand, bridge, hand, Deacon...until finally, and rather triumphantly, he smiled.

"You don't have a friggin' eight," declared MacCready, daringly pushing his own pile of caps to the center of the table: a paltry, none-too-impressive sum compared to Deacon's large bounty.

"Famous last words," murmured Nick Valentine, who was the dealer. "Alright then. Show your cards." MacCready looked at Deacon sideways.

"You first," Mac challenged. Deacon sighed.

"You know what, you're getting better, Mac. You're really catching onto this game," he admitted.

"Hah! I knew it!"

"Or so I thought," finished Deacon, throwing his hand to the table. An eight and a queen— rounding out the bridge of four to seven, forming a respectable straight.

"God-_fucking_-dammit!"

The room sat in silence for a half-second, before exploding into laughter. MacCready pulled his visor down below his eyes and tried not to scream in frustration.

The man who had just belted that vile obscenity happened to come from one Robert J. MacCready, which explained the group's reaction to his outburst. Only those who were close to the sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and sometimes bad-tempered mercenary known as MacCready knew that he generally made an effort to avoid such words. You might have found it surprising how absolutely Puritan MacCready's policies on swearing were. For gun-slinging mercenaries (or, "freelancer," as he liked to go by these days) such as him don't necessarily have an inclination for a clean tongue. After all, when you live life on the edge, you don't usually have time to choose your words carefully.

But only his true friends know the reason MacCready spoke _sans _profanity. A promise made to a sickly child: to clean up his act, and speak in a manner befitting that of a dignified freelancer rather than a foul-mouthed hitman. That child is MacCready's son, Duncan. A boy no older than ten, and already the survivor of a terrible disease. It wasn't too long ago that Duncan MacCready stood on the precipice of death...until he was saved by his father, who had fought off an army of rabid ghouls to recover a cure. Now with Duncan slowly regaining his health, it wasn't uncommon to see the MacCready crack a smile nowadays.

MacCready may have sometimes turned off strangers with his bad attitudes, but once you got to know him, you'd find that the mercenary was good company to keep, and an even better partner in combat. He was always unwaveringly loyal, fiercely protective of the people he cared about, and more importantly, he was a good friend.

Luckily the hot-headed merc was also a good sport. After all, it was the only thing that was keeping him from thumping the other howling members in the room. For Robert MacCready was an excellent marksman, a seasoned tracker, an accomplished drinker, and, as _he _would often say, a popular hit with the ladies.

But he was absolutely _shit_ at poker.

"I don't have to be a detective to figure out you screwed up, MacCready," said a smirking Nick Valentine, the Synth Detective with a rapier wit. Nick was an old pro, and definitely knew his way around a bluff. However, unlike Deacon, Danse, and to a lesser extent, MacCready, Nick lacked the competitive edge that had Deacon winning poker night six times in a row. Nick was happier enjoying a beer and watching the chaos enfold before him, rather than get involved himself.

"Aww blow it out your shiny metal ass, you clockwork dick," muttered the mercenary in reply, stewing in his seat.

Deacon tutted mockingly as if he were a doting schoolmarm. "Now now, I thought we were having a nice family-friendly game of cards, and you come in with a mouth dirtier than a Goodneighbor gutter."

"Hey, I take offense to that," said Hancock with a sly grin, obviously not offended at all. Not that he could, the ghoul mayor of Goodneighbor was so wasted that he was only registering certain words and names as they flew by. Hancock, like most other nights, had come prepared, always promising a quick win. But in the typical "party animal" manner he was known for, as soon as the first beer went down the hatch, it was shortly followed by another and another until the ghoul was too drunk to even count the cards in his hand. Such was Hancock's further involvement in poker night, like Valentine, a more passive spectator than a competitive player, although providing far more laughs.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that Deacon?" said MacCready, throwing a cap at Deacon's head. "Alright, next round. This time, I'm dealing, Valentine. I don't trust your—"

"Now hold on," said Valentine, holding his hand over the cards that MacCready was reaching for. "You know the rules."

"I believe Valentine said to 'show your cards,'" said Danse. No one expected Danse to be a ringer. He had only started joining the General's monthly poker games after significant prodding from friends. Since then, Danse had won almost as many games as Deacon. The man played poker like he fought a war: calculated, conservative, with just a little bit of daring. He was the master of the poker face, and usually came prepared for each game with his signature pair of non-reflective sunglasses.

"And 'show your cards' means everybody who anted, buckaroo," cackled Hancock. "So lay 'em out," he slurred as Deacon started drumming the table in anticipation.

"You had the Joker, right? That's the trump card, didn't ya know?"

Amidst the laughter, Mac looked helplessly to the host of the evening: their friend, his partner, and general of the Minutemen. Many times MacCready had come to his aid and vice versa. It was because of him that Duncan was even still breathing. He knew that if someone would help spare his dignity, it would be that man— the lion-hearted, compassionate savior of the Commonwealth.

But his friend just shrugged his shoulders, with a hint of a smile on his face. Will Lamont was not about to let a good ribbing go to waste.

"Just get it over with, buddy," Will recommended, giving his friend a playful pat on the back. MacCready groaned.

"Hurry up, dude."

"Yeah, put em' on the deck, Mac."

MacCready let out a sound akin to that of the whimper of a defeated mutt. He took a quick sip of his Gwinnett, trying to muster the strength needed for the oncoming storm. With a sigh, he flicked his two cards to the table.

A six and a two. A single pair against Deacon's straight. That was another weakness of MacCready's. He just didn't know when to quit.

The room erupted in vicious guffawing. Hancock was cracking up feverishly into the table, thumping it with his fist. Valentine was shuddering so hard, you could swear he'd suddenly pop a loose screw and spontaneously combust. Even stone-faced Danse had to chuckle in amusement behind his shades, shaking his head in pity.

Only Deacon didn't make a sound, grinning widely as he put his hands around the large pile of caps in the center of the table, and dragged them to his side of the table. He often joked that his main revenue stream these days were the monthly poker game, rather than being an agent of the Railroad. And being one of the best spies the Railroad had, that was saying a lot. It was no secret that Deacon was one of the best card players in the Commonwealth. He was a wandering cowboy, always ready for a game, traveling through the tables of Boston with his trusty gym bag full of disguises at his side (a necessary caution against sore losers). Deacon was a master of deceit; he only lied when his lips moved.

You could practically see smoke emanating from underneath the Mercenary's green visor as he sat there, fuming, his face beaming a bright shade of red. "This blows!" he moaned. "Why don't we ever play Caravan? I'd wipe you all out and you know it!"

"Because nobody else knows how to play the damn game, Mac."

"And you can only play it with two people."

"And because we like seeing you lose."

Another tremendous laugh. MacCready went bright red with annoyance, even though he too had to laugh it off.

"You losers wouldn't last two minutes on the trail," he said, grabbing the deck from Valentine's hands.

"Here we go again with the caravan trail. If I wanted to risk my life humping across the goddamn country guarding valuables, I'd join the Provisioner Brigade," said Deacon.

Danse immediately turned to Deacon. "And what exactly is wrong with the Provisioner Brigade?"

"Listen Danse, I know the Provisioner's was your baby, but I'm just saying, there are easier ways to say, 'Hey would you please rob me?' then roaming around in a blue duster with a backpack full of supplies."

"Ouch," said Will. "Right for the throat, huh Deacon?"

"Sorry boss. Comes from a place of truth."

"Will and I modeled that unit after the famed Mojave Express," said Danse between sips of beer. "If you're not satisfied with your service, we can tell the men to stop delivering the Publick to your dead drops."

"Alright, jeez, I take it back. You're both geniuses, alright?" Danse flicked some beer droplets at Deacon in response.

"You know I was a— _BURP_— I'm a...we got a mailroom in the mayoral office now? And uh...I gotta—_hic— _big fuckin' hat."

"Yeah, fair point, Hancock," said Deacon, holding his nose. "You spilled your beer by the way."

"Alright fellas, buckle up," challenged a determined MacCready, mixing the cards on the table rather messily— nobody taught him how to shuffle a deck. "Hope you had your fun, cause this is where I turn the boat around."

"Hold on there, Mac," said Nick, placing a mechanical hand over MacCready's. "You gotta chip in first."

"I ain't a blind, Nick, I'm the dealer."

"Not quite. You're paying a different fee," said Will Lamont, standing up from the table. "I think somebody broke their own, 'no-swearing' rule."

"I'm telling Duncan," teased Deacon.

"...And as you know, I got kids in the house now. I can't let ya slide on this one, Mac," said Will, a wide shit-eating grin on his face.

"Don't do it, Will. I'm this close to laying you out," threatened the Mercenary, cracking his knuckles.

"So, you know what that means…" said Will, reaching for an object on the nearby shelf. The next thing he knew, a handful of caps were thrown at his head, and MacCready had launched himself onto him.

Another round of uproarious laughter went up from the six friends as MacCready wrestled Will to the ground, being careful to avoid the broken glass shards of the Lamont family "SWEAR JAR."

* * *

The raucous laughter continued on from below. Piper groaned and cranked up the volume on her radio. She heard a glass break a few seconds ago. If she heard another, Piper promised herself she'd personally grind someone's face right into the shards.

"_Living for you...is easy living, it's easy to live...when you're in love…"_

Ironically, she missed the classical music station the most. Some time ago before she started the paper, she had read somewhere that classical music helped people concentrate, especially while writing. It was advice that she took to heart. Many times Piper had powered through the meatiest of articles with the help of that station. Unfortunately, and rather ironically, it turned out that the broadcast was no more than a front for the Institute's relay waves, allowing their agents to teleport in and out of the Commonwealth. And with the Institute going up in a cloud of smoke, so too did the music, and now that station played nothing but dead air. She tried not to feel too sorry about that.

Will had invited her to come play, of course. But Piper recognized that it was only as a courtesy, and graciously declined. After all, who wants your girlfriend hanging around during boys' night?

Part of her was tempted. After all, she could play the whole lot of them under the table. Danse didn't stand a chance. Nick was too passive. Hancock would be incapacitated. And of course, she'd wipe MacCready clean, send him packing back to that Third Rail backroom Will found him in. Maybe she'd even clean Will out.

She smiled devilishly at the thought. That'd be the day. It wouldn't be that hard either. A little look this way, a little look that way. A bat of the eyelashes, a playful wink, a wandering eye, a momentary lapse of concentration, and then _whoops-a-daisy! _Sorry sweetheart, looks like you're shit out of luck. Better luck next round. Maybe she'd sit on his lap, distract him further. She'd have him so focused on her, he wouldn't even notice that she was robbing him blind. She'd find a way for him to pay his debts...in one way or another.

The only problem in that scenario would be the teasing and snide remarks that would follow from slack-jawed maws of Deacon and Mac respectively. She suspected she'd have to slap some faces around, and frankly, Piper just didn't have the energy today. So while it was worth it to see her dear Will go beet-red and penniless, she didn't feel much like putting a few smart mouths in their place.

Anyway, she had better things to do. She had a paper to manage.

The Publick Occurrences was the most popular newspaper in the Commonwealth. Formerly a tiny little news-vending shack driven solely by passion alone was now the number one source of information and current events from Sanctuary City to Fort Warwick. A dinky little one-printing-press homemade passion-project had quickly become a major business in the postbellum Commonwealth.

The Publick Occurrences now employed six writers, three editors, four field reporters, and a handful of freelance weekly columnists. They had a satellite office in Sanctuary City and a partnership with the Minutemen Provisioner's Brigade, who delivered their paper to every allied settlement in the Commonwealth. The P.O had taken on a handful of budding writers, reporters, and snoops (as Piper had once proudly been) and turned them into world-class journalists. And Piper Wright, the one who started it all, now stood high atop her pride and joy, that with which she built with her own hands, as the publication's CEO and Editor-in-chief.

She was in the middle of proofreading a very promising potential headliner. Two ghoul citizens of the Commonwealth had been found dead in a gutter by Bunker Hill...which a closer examination revealed that they'd to be beaten to death. And it just so happened to be that the bodies were discovered a day after the Brotherhood of Steel had deployed a patrol to Bunker Hill while on exercises. Several hastily interviewed witnesses later, and Piper had managed to string together the plot of a hate crime/murder conspiracy.

It was a hell of a story...and a frightening notion: for the time being, the Publick was the only form of law enforcement the Commonwealth had. After all, how do you charge someone with a crime when there was no court yet to uphold justice? And how do you arrest a member of the Brotherhood, let alone put them on trial while the laws were still being written, partly by them?

Piper sighed, taking a moment to lean back in her chair and think. The first story she ever wrote was about Captain Mayburn, the traitorous militia officer that had her own father killed. That paper was her revenge, and it had brought Mayburn to justice. From then on, Piper decided she would happily bring any injustice to light, no matter how severe or personal, or what consequences or backlash she'd receive. Her "fear-stoking" during the Synth crisis had brought her ostracization from her fellow Diamond City citizens...though she was vindicated after she was proven right by former mayor, McDonough.

This was different though. Piper, the Publick, and even Will were about to shoulder a heavy burden by publishing this story. But she already knew that if she valued her integrity, it was the cross she'd have to bear.

"Piper?"

Her stream of thoughts were cut short, however, as a young boy who was standing behind Piper interrupted her. Shaun, the newest addition to the Lamont household, had caught her attention.

"Hey there, you," said Piper. "Call me crazy, but aren't you up waaay past your bedtime?" She cringed inwardly. She was using her "mom," voice again. Piper hadn't used that particular tone since Nat started taking care of herself. With Shaun in the house, it tended to come up more frequently, and she was starting to feel sensitive about it.

The child stood in front of her, clad in his Minutemen-blue P.J's, rubbing his eyes. "Can I have a Nuka-Cola?" he asked.

"No honey, you just brushed your teeth. How about some water?"

Shaun yawned. "Water's okay…" he mumbled sleepily.

Piper smiled at him. "What's the matter, Shaun?"

"I can't sleep. Where's Mom?" asked Shaun. Piper sighed.

It didn't take long for Shaun to assimilate into family life. Not surprising, considering he was all but programmed for it. But Piper Wright had no such wiring, and truthfully, the hardy reporter was still having trouble getting used to being a caretaker.

It had been a while since Piper shacked up with Will, formally moving in with him (though it was not much of a "move," all things considered— as it was just on the other side of the market) shortly before the war ended. In all honesty, it seemed more of a formality than anything, as Piper had already spent most days and nights at Will's place, and with the Publick expanding, a larger office space was needed for new hires.

The day the Minutemen stormed the Institute, Piper was in the Castle, huddled around a radio with the other soldiers, wondering, fearing, hoping to god that everything was alright. And of course, it was, not that she needed a radio to tell her that. The deafening explosion did. The Commonwealth's greatest boogeyman had finally been defeated, the Minutemen were heroes, parading down Jersey street as Diamond City welcomed them with open arms. And Will had returned to her— with a ten-year-old boy at his side.

"_This is my son," _he said, in a strangely calm, practically dreamy tone. "_This is Shaun, my son. I found him, finally._" It was only later that night that Will revealed what Shaun truly was. A synth. The only synth child ever created...Piper hoped at least.

Preston explained the scene to her later on. How a child had met the Minutemen just as they were about to leave the Institute before it was blown up. How the child had claimed to be the General's son, pleading to be taken with him. And how the General, in a rare moment of hysteria amidst the destruction and war, dropped to his knees sobbing, embracing the boy and claiming him as his own.

And by claiming him as his own, he had also claimed him as Piper's as well. Will told her that he planned to raise the synth as if it were his own son, which it technically was. But to him, there was no difference. Piper didn't know if he was really in denial...or if Will, deep down, had convinced himself that the synth really was his child. In any case, it didn't matter. Will finally had his son back. Not only that, but he wanted the two of them to raise him together.

She was hesitant in the first few days— having thoughts that ranged from flat-out refusing the child to unfairly accusing Will of grief-stricken delusion. Piper was, after all, a revolutionary at heart, one of the first to call attention to synth menace. She distrusted Father, and viewed Shaun as one of his final hands to play. But in the end, she couldn't bring herself to deny Will. After all, he wanted something that had eluded him for a very long time: a family. Piper hadn't known it for a while, but so had she. So she soon learned to put her prejudices aside.

It wasn't too much of an adjustment. Piper quickly learned to love the kid, truly. Shaun was funny, polite, and oh so _very_ bright. He was respectful, kind to just about everyone he met, and had a laugh that instantly brightened Piper's day. And he was so _alive_. If youthful energy had a face, it was Shaun's; he was positively vibrant. He could go from quiet, thoughtful contemplation, nose-deep in a book about dinosaurs or quantum physics, to practically bouncing off the walls, laughing and screaming like the child he truly was.

Yes, Shaun was definitely his father's son. But when Shaun kept on asking about his mother...it scared her. Not because she was afraid of telling him the truth, but because it constantly reminded her of the shoes she might one day have to fill.

"You know, _I _can help you get to sleep," said Piper, changing the subject quickly. "How about a story?"

Shaun nodded, smiling. "Okay. I like the way you tell stories."

"Then get back into bed, and I'll be with you in a minute. And try not to wake up Nat, alright?"

"Nat's not here," said Shaun.

Piper frowned. "What do you mean?" Suddenly realizing, she groaned. "She's not sleeping in the office again, is she?"

Shaun nodded sheepishly. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I tried to tell her not to go."

"It's okay— it's not _your _fault," said Piper, casting a glance downstairs. From downstairs, she heard a certain mercenary let out a vulgar, profanity-laden sentence.

"They are making a pretty big racket, huh? You want me to go down there and knock some heads around?"

Shaun nodded, a playful but sleepy smile on his face.

* * *

"...what did he say? So then the guy says, 'The General sent me to collect donations from concerned citizens such as yourself.' And at this point, I'm _this_ close to cracking up, but I want to see how long he lasts."

"Oh christ. Raising to fifty."

"Too rich for my blood, I fold."

"So I say, 'Oh really? The General said that, huh? Wow, sounds like a good cause. How can I help out?' And he gets this big smile on his face, and I swear to god, the guy does Preston's _wink_."

"Get out of here!" Valentine hollered. "He was that researched?"

"Wait, what wink?"

"You know that face he makes to the cameras every time they catch him with the flash? That half-blink/squint thing he does, where he scrunches up one side of his face, like…"

Will demonstrated, perfectly imitating a man being half-blinded by a camera's flash. Deacon nearly toppled over in fits, recognizing Preston's goofy face immediately.

"Meanwhile, the real Preston is about twenty yards behind me— he's talking to the contingency commander— we're _inches _away from Greentop Nursery, and this idiot says to me…" Will paused to catch his breath, stumbling through his story with tears of laughter in his eyes. "... '_well, could I put you down for a hundred caps?!_'"

The table exploded; even stone-faced Danse had tears streaming down his face, he was laughing so hard.

"So I say, 'Sounds good. By the way, there's someone I want you to meet!'" Will howled.

Piper was greeted by a throng of explosive laughter in response to Will's anecdote, as she made her way down the stairs to the basement. She winced. The last thing they needed was another noise complaint from Diamond City Security. Piper put a hand on Will's shoulder, clearing her throat. He turned to her.

"Oh shit, hey," said Will, still wiping tears away. "Heard you were still awake upstairs. Guys, say 'hi' to Piper."

MacCready gave her a tiny salute, Deacon whistled at her, and Danse waved politely. Hancock went to tip his hat, but drunkenly missed, poking himself in the eye.

"Hey Pipes," greeted Deacon coolly.

"Evening, Piper," said Danse. "Good to see you."

"Porporelli," muttered Hancock, rubbing his eye.

"Hey, Deacon. Danse. Thanks, Hancock."

"There she is," said Nick Valentine. The old synth gave her a friendly wave. "How come you don't ever come down and play with us?"

"You couldn't afford it, Nicky," Piper joked. "Everyone having fun?"

"Sure. Well, most of us anyway," jeered Will, as he ducked another cap thrown at his head from MacCready.

"Well I hate to bring the party down, but it's a _little _too late, and you guys are being a _little_ too loud," said Piper.

Will's face fell. "Shit, are we keeping Shaun up?"

"He's not the only one, Will. I got a paper I'm trying to work on? And I think _you_'_re _supposed to be somewhere tomorrow morning," she warned.

Will sighed. "What do you think guys?" he asked the room. "Should we call it a night?" Murmurs of agreement rose up throughout the table.

"Alright fellas," Deacon said, shoveling his tower of caps into his gym bag. "Let me know the next time you guys wanna fund my next trip to Starlight City."

"Eat me, Deacon."

"Suppose I'd better get back to the Castle soon," said Danse, tucking away his shades into his jacket pocket. "This was fun, Will. Thanks again for the invitation."

"Great. 'Course we stop playing just as soon I was hitting my stride," grumbled MacCready, throwing his hand to the middle of the table (he was holding a two and a nine).

"I think you've had enough card games tonight, MacCready," scolded Piper. Hancock snickered.

"Yeah, sure thing, _mom_," laughed MacCready in reply. And then, he yelped.

The next thing MacCready knew, Piper had embedded her finger directly in the soft fleshy area between his shoulder and his neck. Piper never had an annoying little brother— but boy did she know how to push their buttons.

"Ow! Jesus, ya psycho— Piper! Quit it!" whined the mercenary, squirming in his chair. The entire room was in hysterics, Deacon practically on his knees laughing.

"Lose any more caps today, MacCready?" Piper teased, digging her finger deeper into his neck. ("Not enough to learn when to quit!" yelled Valentine). "Wallet a bit lighter today?"

"Leggo! Alright I take it back!" screamed Mac, tearing away from Piper's finger. "Will, your girl is a piece of work, you know that?" Will started to laugh...until he saw the Medusa-like glare Piper was shooting him.

"Suppose I can't say a quick 'goodnight' to Thing 1 and Thing 2, huh?" said Valentine, throwing his beaten trench coat over his shoulder. Ever the kindly uncle was the synth detective, Nick Valentine.

"Thing 1's in bed," said Piper. "And...Nat's at the Publick," she finished, shooting Will a concerned look. He acknowledged it, sighing. Meanwhile, a certain ghoul was having trouble getting to his feet.

"Hancock, you're welcome to crash here tonight," Will offered.

"Prrrrreeshyate it cowboy," slurred Hancock, tipping his tri-corner hat that he'd made famous throughout the Commonwealth. The ghoul took two haggard steps, and promptly collapsed face-first into the living room couch. A slow rumbling between the cushions began as the ghoul immediately started snoring.

"Alright, that settles him," said Will. "Who's going where?"

* * *

"Danse," said Will, with a smile. "Thanks for coming." They were stood outside Will's house in the middle of the Diamond City market.

"Always a pleasure, Will," said Danse, as he shook Will's hand officiously. As much as he had been coming out of his shell lately, some things about Danse never changed. To his credit, he was smiling too, and warmly at that.

There was a time, not too long ago, that Danse wouldn't be caught dead playing poker with a ghoul, a synth, and a member of the Railroad. A while back, Danse fought for a different group; the Brotherhood of Steel, being one of Elder Maxson's top officers. He was as dedicated and as stalwart as any of them, a true soldier through and through. The ideals of the Brotherhood weren't just values to him, they were his lifeblood. And with those ideals came the same bigotry that the Brotherhood had been inflicting on the Commonwealth's "un-citizens." After finding out he was a synth himself however, his stance softened.

That day was the worst of his whole life. Confused, scared, and hunted by the people he once called family, Danse found himself at the crossroads of putting a bullet in his own brain, or letting the Brotherhood do it for him. He needed saving.

General Lamont did more than that. Firstly, he (at that point, a Knight of the Brotherhood himself) refused Elder Maxson's order to kill Danse, saving his life. Then, he gave it a new purpose by recruiting him into the Minutemen. Bound by gratitude and newfound direction, Danse took to his new post like bloatflies to a corpse.

With his leadership abilities and military experience, Danse quickly rose through the ranks, becoming a Colonel and Chief of Regiment, Commander of the Castle. And by serving the Commonwealth and its people, Danse learned to shed his prejudices, and finally accept himself for what he was.

Will had only one rule for Danse, now that the former Brotherhood Paladin had joined the Minutemen, and that was to him, he was "Will" and not "General," especially during off-the-clock social events. It took a while, but ever-formal Danse adjusted eventually.

"Piper, it was good to see you as well. Hope we didn't completely impede the progress of your article."

"Thanks Danse. You gonna be okay getting back to the Castle this time of night?" asked Piper.

Danse allowed himself a rare, cocky smirk. "Don't worry Piper. The day I find myself unable to navigate through a perilous environment is the day I resign as a Minuteman."

"Will, I wish you luck with the grand opening tomorrow. It's a damn shame I can't attend."

"The Castle would fall apart without you, Danse, we both know that," said Will. "Keep her tip-top."

"I will, General, don't worry. Good luck with your speech, and if Preston needs any pointers, my door's open."

Will shrugged. "He'll be fine, I just told him to be himself."

"Well… that's awfully mean of you," said Danse with a smile, as he turned and left with a wave. Meanwhile, Will had burst out laughing.

"Did...did Danse just make a _joke_?" asked Piper, astonished.

"He did," breathed Will, still chuckling. "I'm so damn proud of him."

* * *

MacCready was headed to the Dugout Inn for a nightcap— although Piper suspected he was snooping around for another game.

"You better not get into too much trouble, you knucklehead," warned Piper. MacCready was getting dangerously close to Piper's former levels of notoriety with Diamond City Security. She'd even heard they were considering renaming the drunk tank at the security office she had come to know so well, the "MacCready Suite." She didn't know whether to feel worried, or jealous.

"Aw jeez Piper, what are you, my attorney?"

Piper frowned. "Do you even know what that is?"

"What are you, my...professor?" MacCready hesitantly quipped. "I'm just going to check on my good ol' friend Vadim, no trouble in that."

"You know, I tend to disagree," Piper said unsurely, recalling the time her, Will, and Travis Miles rescued the kidnapped bartender from a group of raiders. Will stepped out of the house.

"Deacon says he wants to try that new beer I got from Goodneighbor, so he'll be here a while longer. Did you get cut?" Will asked MacCready.

MacCready flashed a smile, holding up his bleeding forearm. "You?" Mac asked.

Will lifted his pant leg in solidarity to reveal his scraped knee. The two shared another laugh, as Piper shook her head.

"One of these days, you two are gonna get seriously hurt if you keep roughhousing," she scowled. MacCready gave Will a bloody nudge.

"What did I tell you? She really is turning into a mom," he said. Will tried his best to stifle a chuckle, as Piper turned beet red.

"Thanks for coming, man," said Will. "Next time we'll break out the checkers set— something a little more your speed."

"Yeah, yeah laugh it up. Next time, I'll host, and we'll see how good you are in enemy territo-"

Piper tensed up, as MacCready trailed off into awkward silence. His face immediately fell.

"Aw jeez...I'm sorry man, I wasn't thinking…" he began.

"Yeah, sure Mac! We'd love to stop by," said Will, wearing the smile of a man who was determined to pretend he heard nothing.

MacCready shuffled his feet awkwardly. The look on his face was similar to that of a guilty child, awaiting a scolding from their parents. Piper still had to remember MacCready was the youngest of all of them by far.

"Well… I'll see you around then, Will. Take care."

"You too, buddy."

MacCready gave a last apologetic look, and waved goodbye, as he started to walk towards the Dugout Inn. Piper sighed.

MacCready had been looking for steady lodgings for months. The mercenary had been drifting for years in seedy hotel rooms and flophouses, and was finally ready to settle down somewhere more permanent. He was later delighted to find out that the new mayor of Diamond City was putting a nice, previously owned property in the upper stands overlooking the city up for rent. MacCready, who had saved up a dragon's hoard of caps, bought it on the spot. It was a nice little double story that also gave him his privacy, nestled above the rest of the city, but was still within walking distance from good friends down at Home Plate (not to mention the Dugout Inn). Plus, it came with a pretty nifty hidden room that Mac, as a child, could only fantasize of. Suffice to say, he thought the place was perfect. Unbeknownst to MacCready at the time however, his new home was also the former residence of the murderer of his best friend's wife.

Upon learning this, Mac had come to Will and offered countless times to chuck his key over the wall— _And I'll have the place torn down, man. Hell, I'll do it myself if I have to, board by board_, he'd always say. A widower himself, he knew what Will was feeling.

But Will always turned him down graciously. A house was a house in the end, and some people were unlucky enough to be on the streets these days, and that shouldn't be taken for granted. Besides, MacCready had clearly settled in, acclimating quickly to his new home. So they acquiesced, and the matter was hastily forgotten, and never spoken of again.

Will would never say a thing to his friend about it. But it would take a long time before Will was finally comfortable enough to step inside MacCready's home. He would eventually visit many times, where he would sit on the couch, beer in hand, joking with his friend while their children played together. And even then, all he would feel while he sat in that wicked little shack was the cold, cold feeling of despair, as a shadow mocked him from beyond the grave.

* * *

Nick Valentine was headed back to the office to pour over some leftover cases. It made Piper, in a morbid kind of way, jealous of being a synth— being able to work for nights and nights on end without sleep. But the immediate image of her being placed on an Institute factory line, made to slave endlessly under threat of termination pushed that little pip of envy out of her head.

"So I'm assuming this isn't a replacement for our dinner plans this weekend?" said the old Synth, putting on his signature, weathered fedora.

"Of course not," Will said with a warm smile. "Eight o'clock, Saturday night. We'll have the Gwinnett nice and cold for you. Bring Ellie along too."

"You're always welcome here, Nicky," said Piper.

"I know, Piper," said Nick with a smile. "You two are good company. Warms my core knowing that the two most honest, kind-hearted people I know found each other in a world like this. Makes me hopeful for the future."

"Aww, Nick…" Touched, Piper's hand found her heart. "That's so sweet of you..."

"Yeah don't get too teary-eyed, Valentine. You might rust," joked Will. That remark earned him a punch on the arm from Piper, but Valentine, in all his good humor, just laughed.

"I think I'm a little past that point by now," chuckled the detective. "I'd better hit it. Sorry, I won't be able to catch the grand opening tomorrow, I gotta swing by Oberland Station for a case. Will, I trust you have a big speech prepared?"

Will groaned. "No, and I wouldn't hold it against ya' if you skipped it." Another punch on the shoulder from Piper. Nick laughed.

"Well, I'll see you this weekend then. Night, kids. Don't stay up too late." And with a tip of his grey, beaten hat, he was out the door.

Then, Piper suddenly remembered something. "Hey, Nicky!"

The synth turned back. "Yes, Piper?"

"Would you knock on the Publick's door and tell Nat to come home?"

* * *

Deacon left last— and in quite a hurry.

"Sorry Will, gimme a raincheck on that beer," he announced, as he quickly gathered up his things and stuffed them into his pockets. "Cap needs me back at the ship," he explained discreetly, snatching the duffle bag off the floor and tearing into it.

This bothered Will; he had never seen Deacon do anything that wasn't at a leisurely pace. Even in the thick of a firefight or deep undercover, the master spy was always about taking it easy. Calm, relaxed, and in control. He'd seen Deacon literally pinned under a rabid Yao Guai and still being able to crack a smile. Here he was now, wrestling with his disguise bag, pulling out his City Security gear on hastily like the Wall was about to come crashing down.

"How are things back there, Deacon?" Will asked curiously. "Smooth sailing?"

There was really no need to speak in code anymore. It had been a year since Will had resigned from his spot in the Railroad to focus on rebuilding the Commonwealth, but he still liked to keep his respects. The Minutemen and the Railroad would forever be on good terms, and they all knew this. Normally, when Will asked him if there was indeed, "smooth sailing," Deacon would often flash his impeccable smile and say a stupid joke that hardly ever answered the question— _Well I tell you what sailor, all I've known is that I've been out at sea too long, and I'm starting to mistake some real butterfaces for mermaids. Love the tail and clam bikini, by the way_, he'd say, his eyes twinkling behind his black shades.

To his dismay, Deacon only grimaced.

"I'll be honest with ya, chief. The Brotherhood's still giving us hell. They're starting to crack down hard on Synths. And Synth sympathizers. From what I hear, they've doubled their training efforts with the Inquisitors. Soon enough, the Brotherhood is going to have their own little secret police to terrorize us with," said Deacon. He was busy strapping on his disguise as quickly as he could, and his uniform was getting caught and tangled.

"Shits creek?" asked Will with a frown, helping tie on his baseball pads. Another code, a little more self-explanatory than others.

"We still got the paddle, but it's hard to hold on. Dez has been trying to steer out of it, but it's a lot of work to handle. And...with recent developments...things I've been hearing lately..." Deacon trailed off, rubbing his head in frustration, re-adjusting his hairpiece. It was a nervous tick he had: Deacon was somewhat sensitive about his baldness. He tried to play it off with an unconvincing stretch.

"Damn it. How do these guys protect a city? I can barely move in this damn thing."

"If you need anything…you can clue me in, you know?" said Will, his voice dropping low. He wanted to push for more information, but he knew it wouldn't work. Deacon never simply gave up secrets.

Deacon glanced at him, his expression one of curiosity and caution. For a moment he looked like he was about to say something— but then decided it against it.

"Nah, don't bother," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm really just being paranoid. You know how I am. Two steps ahead, and all that."

"You sure?" Will asked raising an eyebrow.

"Sure as eggs, ol' buddy. This isn't something the Minutemen needs to get involved in."

And Will knew then that's all he'd get from Deacon tonight.

They stood in the doorway, Deacon cautiously checking left and right for enemy eyes. But before he disappeared into the night, back to whatever mission he was called for, he saw fit to give Will one last word of advice:

"Rocky currents up ahead Will," warned Deacon. "Keep your ear to the ground."

* * *

There was a knock on the Publick's door. Nat Wright, the sole inhabitant of the newspaper's office at this time, stubbornly ignored it. She turned up the volume on her radio, having an odd twinge of nostalgia for a certain station she had liked. It helped her think. Right now, she was nose-deep in homework, desperately trying to recall how to change a mixed number to an improper fraction, and _not _in the mood to talk.

There was another knock on the door.

"Go away," she growled. "I'm not going back."

"Now is that any way to talk to your friends?" said a familiar voice.

"Uncle Nicky?!" exclaimed Nat. She threw her pencil down, rushing to her feet, straight to the front door. She swung it open.

A familiar, kindly synthetic face stared back at her.

"Late night, little lady?" he laughed. Nat smiled and jumped into his arms.

"Woah! Easy there, honey," Nick chuckled. "These arms ain't flesh and bone, so much as they are just bone."

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, I could ask you the same thing, kiddo. Your sister told me to tell you to come home," Nick said. "I'm sorry we kept you up. Must have been pretty loud for you to run away from home like this."

"It wasn't your fault," confessed Nat. "And this is my home."

"Right…" Nick looked around the office unsurely.

Perhaps once, this had been a home. Nick remembered when this little shack had been the sole abode of the Wright family. Which at the time of their residence in Diamond City was three women; a sickly mother and her two daughters, one on the cusp of adulthood the other barely a toddler. They had moved in shortly after the father died. Nick never met him. It wasn't easy for a single mother raising two girls in a town like this. Mrs. Wright broke her back taking care of her family, and Piper along with her. And after Mrs. Wright passed away from radiation sickness, the two girls were on their own. Piper and Nat lived alone together, running their little business and trying to hold on to each other in a ruthless world.

Now, this little shack was officially the headquarters of the Publick Occurrences— everything had been converted to maximize office space. Filled wall to wall with desks, printers, terminals, everything you needed to produce the most trusted and reliable paper in the Commonwealth. And in a time where certain people of the Commonwealth were realizing the power of communication and starting their own papers, it was important to stay competitive; no half measures. It was the ruthless, cutting-edge publishing house of this postbellum Commonwealth. But a home, it was no longer. Now, Piper's home was across the street, with a certain Minuteman.

Nat had not taken this change well. Here she was now, doing her homework by candlelight, stubbornly embedded between two large desks, placed in the same spot her bed used to be...covering up the pretty crayon drawings she had made when she was younger.

"You know, it just seems awfully cramped in here," began Nicky. "Why don't you sleep in that cool bunk bed back at Home Plate?"

"I can't sleep," scowled Nat. "I have to do homework. And I'm not going back there."

Nick sighed, letting Nat down gently.

"Look, kid, I get it. You're still getting used to Will and Piper...being together. I understand. You know, back before the war, I was on this case. See, this lady had just remarried her—"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Nick," Nat interrupted. "But I can't listen to any stories right now, I'm busy."

"Fair point. Look, all I'm saying is that you need to give it a chance."

"Nobody gave me a chance," Nat said sorrowfully.

"To do what?"

Nat looked around the office: the one home she had ever known.

"To say goodbye," she said quietly. Nick sighed, taking his hat off.

"Alright I give," said Nick. "What do I have to do to make you go home- I mean, back to Will's house?" Nat raised an eyebrow.

"Well...I do need help on this last math question for Mr. Zwicky's assignment," she said.

Nick rolled up his sleeves. "And then you'll go straight back?" he said. Nat sighed.

"Fine."

"Good. Scoot over."

* * *

Back on the living room couch, Hancock was dead asleep, sending a nasal steam engine chugging through the room.

"And then there was one," muttered Piper. "Hope the good people of Goodneighbor don't desperately need their fine mayor tomorrow morning."

Will laughed. He was busy mopping up the leftover cards on the dinner table, arranging them neatly into one pile.

"If I know the good people of Goodneighbor, I'd bet it'd take nothing short of a full-on mutant attack for them to need him. That town's been running itself for years, thanks to him," he said. Hancock snored in agreement.

"Wish I could say the same for Diamond City," sighed Piper, as she grabbed a mop from the closet. "Well, do me a favor and make sure he doesn't throw up on anything. I don't want to make any more problems for Codsworth when he gets back from being serviced. And that snoring is gonna be hell tonight."

"Not for me," yawned Will. "I'm beat. I feel like I could sleep till noon."

"Fat chance," said Piper. "We're leaving at eight tomorrow. I scheduled a caravan to bring us to Kingsport."

Will let out an almighty groan, slamming his face into the table.

"Aw c'mon!" he whined. "Let Preston handle this one. Kingsport was his idea anyway."

Piper shook her head. "Your name's on it, you're going," she said, mopping up spilled beer.

"You know, just because it has my name on it, doesn't mean that it was my idea," grumbled Will, picking up shards of broken glass off the floor. "I don't wanna be known as the asshole that names things after himself."

"Stop paying for them, and you won't be," Piper teased. It was a joke of course. Will had amassed a small fortune by investing in settlements, paying for repairs, supplies, and construction, taking back a small retainer in whatever the settlement made in trading. He was now one of the richest men in the Commonwealth. And Will, not being a miserly, snobby Upper Stands socialite, was more than glad to put those caps right back into the hands of the Commonwealth's citizens. The one thing that the people needed now, more than ever in this Reconstruction era, was caps, and Will had more than enough to give.

"Very funny. But I just don't know what to say, Pipes. I agreed to fund the thing, but I don't know all the small details," he said.

"Hello, I gave you a packet!" exclaimed Piper tiredly. "If you bothered to read it, you'd know. I don't know why I make these things for you, you never read them anyway. Here," she said, digging a large ring binder out from the cupboards, tossing it into Will's hands. "Study up."

Will let out another groan, looking at the cover: _Kingsport Polytechnic Grand Opening, November 5th_.

"Jesus Christ, eighty-six pages? Where's the gun to go with this?"

"Don't be so dramatic," Piper sighed. "You know I love Preston, but this event is too important: he can't head this thing. You know how he gets when you put a camera in his face."

She made a strained, half winking face at Will, who laughed.

"You're not doing it right," he said. "And...I appreciate what you're doing. You really didn't have to go through all this."

"You were the one that hired the _Publick_ to organize a press conference," said Piper. "Honestly, I'll be glad when this is over too."

"Right, right. Suppose I should have gone to the Commonwealth Journal. Maybe Sonya Thornton would appreciate the work?"

Piper gasped.

"Oh that is _rich!_" she exclaimed, grabbing a couch pillow from under Hancock's head, letting him fall face-first into the cushions. Piper then proceeded to beat Will over the head with it.

"Take it back!"

"Ow! Hey, c'mon, they're a respectable news source!" Will teased, trying to escape up the stairs to the bedroom. But Piper was on his tail.

"_I wouldn't use the Commonwealth Journal to pick up Dogmeat's crap!_" Piper shouted, pulling back, ready to strike him once more. Will, however, caught her wrist with dextrous reflexes.

"You—you—you are, you are really…" Piper giggled, trying to wrestle free. And then, Will kissed her forehead. She suddenly didn't feel like struggling.

"You are really impossible…" she finished, quietly giving in.

"That's me, the impossible man," he said, smirking. He went in for another kiss, but his lips were met by Piper's hand.

"I have to finish an article, buddy. Don't get any ideas," she said, turning to leave. But she was jerked back gently: Will still had her wrist in his hand.

"Hey," said Will, a coy smile on his face. "Come over here…"

"Will…"

But he was relentless. "Come here," he repeated, pulling her close.

Piper felt his breath on her skin, and it made her shiver. He always smelled like some kind of candy, smooth chocolate, or some other kind of sugary delight. It was all the snacks she gave him. It made him ever so sweet to the tooth.

"I promised Shaun a story," she said quietly.

But the story could wait, she thought, as he drew her in close and kissed her deeply. She closed her eyes, her lips grinning widely against his, tasting candy-like sweetness.

_Magic. _That word again, embedded in Piper's brain in blissful little moments like these.

It was that concept of magic that confused her. From what she had read of the Pre-war civilizations, there were people who were fascinated with this concept, even to the point of believing in its existence. Maybe there was something to the atmosphere of a nuclear apocalypse that dulled the collective imagination of the people living through it, but Piper couldn't see the appeal in believing in something as fantastically ludicrous as magic.

But then something fantastic happened to her. Piper fell in love with Will. And Piper realized that she had no other way to describe her feelings than with that word.

He was just…magical to her. Charming, strong, brave. A heart of gold. He was kind, honest, and fair to just about everyone he met. He was soft, but far from a pushover. He lived by a certain set of principles, and when you hold the same values as he, you'd not find a truer friend. But when his principles were provoked, or if someone threatened to hurt or take away something he loved, he could be as terrible and as wrathful as a storm. He was a hero to many, a provider to thousands, and he would _never_ stop giving.

How someone so perfect could just trip, stumble and fall into a world like this, Piper didn't know. And if she were to ever take the journalist hat off and switch to writing fantasy stories, she sure had a hell of a story at her fingertips. He was after all, just like a knight. And by that, she didn't mean some power-armor wearing technophile aboard a floating airship. A _real _knight, a heroic and brave champion of the people. The savior of humanity. Imagine the story!

A man awakes from a two-century long slumber. He sets out on a quest to rescue his princess...or rather, his little prince from the evil and terrifying dragon. A selfish and evil monster, hoarding treasures and stealing people to devour from the land it terrorizes. Unafraid, the knight charges into the lair of the beast, and slays it dead, rescuing the prince in the process. And when he returns to the people, he returns not just a hero, but a king. And she, in some weird sort of way that made her cringe in embarrassment, yet flush with excitement, was his queen.

Every passing day was like a dream come true, yet in the bottom of her stomach, she knew somehow this happiness would all come falling apart. He was a recent widower. She was...well, her. It wasn't made to last. She didn't keep her hopes up.

And yet it not only endured. It had blossomed. Two years had passed since that day. The two were inseparable. There were not too many days where she could have him to herself. He was a busy man after all, with all his missions; running around from settlement to settlement, helping where he could, saving people, rebuilding, things that had made Piper fall in love with him in the first place. And even when he wasn't busy, it was always like his mind was drifting, and he was in a completely different place. But there were some days, some lazy Sunday days, where the two would kick back on the couch, share a Nuka-Cola, and fall into each other's warm embrace. Where they would sit together, reading their books or magazines, their hands intertwined. There were some days, where Will was all hers, and she could barely believe such a person could even be in the same room as her. Some days, where she would feel the firm jutting of his chin, the bumpy scar tissue on his cheeks, the scratchy stubble on his face, the soft parting of his lips, and oh did she _live_ for those days. Days where she could fall into those deep pools of oil that were his eyes, when she could lay her head on his strong chest, when she could have every inch of him; her fingers roaming, feeling, tantalizing, making sure it was all real, all _hers_. And knowing that he was hers gave her such immense joy, that Piper would fall in love with him all over again.

As the two embraced, at that moment, she realized, happily to herself: she was falling in love with him yet again.

"Will," she gasped, breaking away for a moment.

"Yes, darlin'?"

"I want you to fuck me," she breathed into his ear.

And before Will could oblige her, it was just at that moment that the front door swung open, and Piper's little sister, Nat stormed in.

* * *

Piper let out a loud gasp as the two broke apart instantly.

"Hey, you!" said Piper, a touch shakily, re-adjusting her blouse. "We've been looking for you all day, you know." She gave Will another one of her patented punches on his shoulder. "Look Will, Nat's home!" she said, forcing a wide smile.

Will had grabbed the closest thing next to him on the nearby counter, which happened to be a copy of _Tumblers Today_, and was studying it intensely. He looked up from his magazine, feigning obliviousness.

"Hmm? Oh hey there, kiddo! Where've you been?"

"Is everyone gone?" Nat asked coldly— frigidly really. If words could affect temperature, the house would be freezing. Piper and Will exchanged a look. "Is the stupid party over already?" said Nat.

"Party's over, honey," said Piper. "Everyone left. Well, Hancock's still here but he won't be making any noise for a while." Almost as if to disprove her statement, a loud snore echoed from below.

"Where'd you run off to?" asked Will. "We missed ya, Nack-Nack."

Piper froze. It was like the air had suddenly been sucked out of the room. Nack-Nack was a name Will had coined for Nat, and right now it was the _wrong _thing to say. The glare her little sister gave him could've paralyzed a Deathclaw, sending it meekly back into its cave.

"Uh… what I meant to say, was—" began Will. But Nat brusquely brushed past the two, storming up the stairs without saying another word.

"Did Uncle Nicky tell you to come on home? I hoped you thanked him!" called Piper.

Silence.

"Alright sweetheart, you have a good night!"

Piper sat down on the bed, her legs suddenly feeling very weak. Will sighed, tossing the magazine lightly across the room.

"Stupid…" he muttered. "I'm so stupid…"

"Give her time," Piper said softly. "She's coming around, I know it."

"I don't know what to do, Pipes. She won't talk to me, she won't move in with us. She doesn't even acknowledge my existence anymore. And since when did stop liking Nack-Nack?"

"She's not a kid anymore, Will," sighed Piper. "She's practically a teenager now."

Things had been different two years ago. Will was just a man out of time looking for his son, and Piper was just a reporter dedicated to helping him. Nat had only been ten then, and the two had been thick as thieves. Will always had a way of getting kids to like him, and Nat took to him with aplomb. Back then, she was Nack-Nack, a name Will had given her that would immediately make her laugh every time she heard it. _Nack-Nack and Pot Pipes. Nack-Nack-Snack-Attack. Nack-Nack, crack-crack my back-back. _Giggles would shortly ensue, and the friendship between the two would grow and grow.

That all changed once Piper and Will stopped being friends and started being lovers. Now, Will could barely get a word in with his girlfriend's little sister. And it was true, she wasn't a kid anymore. She was close to thirteen and sprouting like a tree. She was always clever for her age, but now she was as smart as a whip, and had an acid tongue to match.

Truthfully, the animosity truly started when Piper officially moved in. It was supposed to be the mark of celebration. The _Publick_ was officially big enough to occupy its own building, and Piper had moved in with the man she loved. There was a celebration held at Dugout Inn— nothing too fancy, just a few rounds of drinks with all the familiar friends and faces of Diamond City: Nick Valentine, MacCready, and Hawthorne and Vadim. Even Danse came down from the Castle to share a drink to commemorate the _Publick's _growing business. Nat, however, did not attend. When sent to look for her, Will found her with a box of matches and a can of gasoline inside the office. Piper grounded her for months.

Nat had barely spoken a word to Will since.

* * *

Nat stormed up to her shared room. Shaun, who was still awake, hopped out of bed to greet her.

"You're back!" he exclaimed gladly.

"Only cause you couldn't shut your fat mouth," snapped Nat, as she threw her bedroll and backpack on the floor. "Thanks to you, I didn't finish studying, so you can tell Mr. Zwicky why I failed the quiz."

Shaun looked sheepish. "I didn't mean anything by it. I thought you'd be scared sleeping by yourself."

"I've been sleeping by myself since Piper started the paper, squirt."

Shaun's eyes widened. "Wow, really?"

"Yep. Whenever she had to run off digging for scoops, I had to take care of myself."

"Gee," marveled Shaun in admiration. "I'd be pretty scared to sleep by myself without getting a goodnight kiss."

A moment's pause, as Nat tried to register what she just heard. Then, she burst out laughing. Shaun looked at her curiously, as she fell to the mat, clutching her stomach, in stitches.

"What's so funny?" asked Shaun.

"Nothin'" snickered Nat, wiping away a tear. "But if I were you, I'd skip school on Monday."

"Why?" asked Shaun. "I like school. Mrs. Edna is nice, and I like math, and—"

"Tell it to your dad, you big baby."

Shaun looked puzzled. "You mean our dad?"

"_No_," flashed Nat. "Will is _not _my dad. _My_ dad died. He's _your_ dad."

Shaun looked utterly confused. "I'm sorry… I don't know what you mean."

"Yeah, that's obvious," said Nat, climbing up to the top bunk. "What did they do to you at the Institute? I bet they did all kinds of messed-up experiments on you."

"We did do experiments," said Shaun, getting into bed as well. "They were very nice to me."

"Oh yeah? Don't you know why your daddy blew them up then?" yawned Nat. "They were being bad to the Commonwealth."

Shaun frowned. "I don't know… I was born there… I never left," he said. "I'm sorry, I don't know."

Nat paused. She thought about pushing further...but the toll of working by candlelight all night had finally caught up to her, and she was too tired to argue with the moron. Sleepy and angry, Nat spent the last few seconds before she drifted off to sleep trying to deduce whatever Shaun could mean by that.

… _I was born there… I never left..._

* * *

Piper had ended up in Will's lap this night after all, she thought to herself as they kissed passionately, her sitting in his lap with her legs wrapped around his waist.

"You need to wake up early tomorrow," she breathed through the kisses.

"Then put me to sleep," Will moaned back.

"That's...lame."

And then suddenly, there was a knock on the door. A hard, demanding rap that made the two jump simultaneously. Piper let out a small gasp.

"Who the hell could that be?" she wondered aloud.

"Deacon?" called out Will. There was no answer.

"Why would it be Deacon?" said Piper, climbing off of Will, lying back onto the bed.

"...Dunno. Who is it?" called out Will once more, getting up from bed. He tisked as he walked up to the door, pulling it open.

"If this is you, Deacon, I told you, you should have told me earlier when—"

Will froze. His expression changed completely to grave formality. Piper craned her neck, trying to see who was standing outside.

"Why are you here?" asked Will. Piper could detect a slight bit of challenge in his voice.

"May we talk?" asked a voice.

A shadow of uncertainty appeared on Will's face, yet in an instant, it disappeared.

"Sure," said Will, opening the door wider, stepping aside.

"Will? Who is it?" Piper asked. But her question was answered immediately as the visitor stepped inside.

He was rarely seen out in the open these days, but Piper could recognize him all the same. Even rarer was it that he was without his protection, usually being accompanied by an escort of two or more armored knights. Although Piper never figured the man to have ever needed protection in his life. Clad in his signature coat that could stop bullets and snap the claws of a Yao Guai, with a large sidearm at his waist, he looked like he needed no help tonight.

Standing in their home was Arthur Maxson, Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel.

And he looked angry.

* * *

_Thanks for waiting. It's been a while, I know._

_If you're confused about the layout of Home Plate, I've been using Aloot's Home Plate mod for my playthroughs, and that's inspired Will Lamont's home. So if you're curious to see what that looks like, search it up._


	3. Plugging a Leak

"Hope you got here alright," said Will dryly. "Can't imagine walking here from the Prydwen at this time of night."

"I took a Vertibird."

"Ah, right, shoulda' guessed."

Arthur Maxson entered the Lamont home with the air of a king walking into some peasant's hovel. He seemed to be almost shocked: as if he truly could not believe the General of the Minutemen, in many ways, his opposite, could live in such squalor. And though he had the courtesy not to voice his feelings out loud, Piper could read the disdain on his face as clearly as reading her own newspaper.

Piper side-eyed him. She had the pleasure, or lack thereof, to meet the Brotherhood Elder face to face before. Not surprisingly, she found him just as she predicted he'd be: haughty, standoffish, and conceited, just like most of his soldiers. He was also young. Younger than MacCready even. And by far the youngest person in the room, currently. He was just a child; a child with an army at his disposal. But you'd never guess it just by looking at him. Maxson was a giant, and had the frame and muscled build to match, dwarfing his political rival, Will, who was 5'10 and looked like he had trouble with strong winds ("It's called swimmer's body," protested Will, every time someone teased him about his skinniness. Piper didn't really get it. Most swimmers she knew were Mirelurk food).

Maxson also carried himself like the leader of an army. Wherever he went, he seemed to carry this inherent gravitas: a sense of authority that was almost irresistible. A charisma that could only be found in great leaders; Caesar, Napoleon, Washington, and Maxson. The few times Piper had been adjacent to Maxson whenever he was barking out instructions, she had to suppress that small urge to stand at attention and carry out his orders herself. There was a fiery intensity inside him that could only be cultivated through years of intense military training. The scar on his face, taken from a Deathclaw, was all you needed to see to prove his fortitude. It reminded her of what her father had once told her: Deathclaws didn't leave scars. They left corpses. Maxson was a revered military leader, chiseled from steel itself.

Whereas Will, General of the Minutemen and fellow military leader, did _not_ look the part at all. First of all, he was thin— not a trace of thick, built muscle like Maxson or Danse, Will's lean "swimmer's body" was built more for speed and agility than strength. Only MacCready was skinnier, yet no one expected muscle from a lowly mercenary. Will was shorter than most of his commanding officers; Nick Valentine joked that even Power Armor couldn't make him look taller. Due to his build, usually, Will had to announce his presence before he entered a room, otherwise, you'd never notice him. And the scars on Will's face weren't impressive or scary like Maxson's was. They were faded, ugly thin lines spread horizontally across his cheeks like a hideous smile.

Will was also generally not intense like Maxson was. He didn't possess the fiery energy of a hardened warrior. Will was easy-going, and oftentimes pretty quiet. It was hard to make Will angry and much easier to make him laugh. Yet despite his mostly passive demeanor, nobody was more beloved or respected in the entire Commonwealth than William Lamont. People trusted him, and children adored him. He had the love of the people, something that Arthur Maxson could never have. And Maxson knew that well.

From the day she had met him on the bridge of the Prydwen to now, as he stood in Home Plate, beneath all those layers of intensity, Maxson reeked of one thing. Something which Piper had smelled on him ever since she laid eyes on him. And that was _insecurity_. There wasn't just a chip on his shoulder: there was a boulder.

The Brotherhood of Steel had always been something of a giant question mark ever since they'd arrived in the Commonwealth in their floating fortress. They were a quasi-religious technology hoarding militia— of course, that raised a few eyebrows. But their intentions seemed pure enough. Rid the Commonwealth of the Institute menace? That was something the people could get behind. But it just so happened that the Minutemen beat them to the punch, and suddenly that "Brotherhood question mark" had just gotten a lot bigger. Few wondered why they were even still here. But it seemed like Arthur Maxson was determined to finish what he started: and that was cleansing the Commonwealth.

They had less than half of the settlements the Minutemen did, but for the Commonwealth citizens who lived in the Brotherhood-allied settlements of Nordhagen Beach, Finchtown, Croupville, Zimonja, and Airport City, though made to pay heavy taxes, were well-supplied, well-fed, well-protected, and lived peacefully. They wished for and worried about nothing, being guarded by heavily armored soldiers, enjoying the best of what Brotherhood technology could offer. Meanwhile, the settlements under Minutemen jurisdiction, though numerous, almost always seemed like they were about to fall apart from poor defenses or starvation.

And the worst thing of it all was that the Minutemen and the Brotherhood did _not _currently get along. Ideological differences aside, with the Institute gone, the Minutemen and the Brotherhood were the two most powerful factions in the Commonwealth today. And it was up to them to make sure it didn't fall apart in the postbellum.

"We need to discuss a few things," said Elder Maxson brusquely. "And we need to discuss them now."

"By all means, Arthur, let's talk," Will calmly spoke. "The middle of the night is just as good a time as any."

"Don't patronize me, William. We both know why I'm here."

Will sighed, rubbing his temples, a look Piper instantly recognized— a look that was often correlated when talking with Elder Maxson. She decided that if a discussion were to happen between the two leaders, she was probably intruding. No matter. The upstairs rooms were just a comfortable place to eavesdrop as any, and this house was basically a giant acoustic chamber.

"Piper, why don't you go check on Nat?" hinted Will, as if he was reading her mind. But just as she was about to leave, Maxson spoke up.

"_No,_" demanded Maxson. "She stays."

"You don't order people around in my house, Arthur. If she wants to leave, she can."

"And let her spy on our conversation? No, she needs to be here, so _I_ can mind my own discretion _and_ keep an eye on her. Besides..." said Arthur, pulling a tightly clutched paper leaflet from his jacket, and thrusting it into Will's hands. "Maybe the two of you can explain the meaning of this?"

Will carefully uncrumpled the paper— it was creased to hell, but Piper could make out that particular typeface anywhere: it was today's issue of the _Publick_.

"I see you've been reading Piper's newspaper," said Will, studying the front page. "Looks like Fallon's is having a sale on winter coats." Piper had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing out loud.

"Don't play games with me," snapped the Brotherhood Elder, as he jabbed his finger into the paper, the force of it tearing a small hole in the middle. "Go on, read it out loud."

"_Tyrant Maxson Throws Wrench Into Negotiations_," Will read aloud. "Headlines are supposed to grab your attention, Arthur, that's how they make their money."

"Continue reading," barked Maxson, close to losing his patience. Will sighed, taking a closer look at the paper.

"Arthur Maxson, Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel...during a meeting of the Constitutional Convention yadda-yadda-yadda...quoted as saying...such and such...threatened martial action against the Minutemen if the agreement to hunt down remaining Institute synths was not met," finished Will, frowning.

"Tell me this, _General _Lamont," hissed Elder Maxson, the taste of Will's title like acid on his tongue. "How would _she_—" he said, wildly pointing at Piper. "—know what was said during that meeting, considering she wasn't even there?"

"I don't know," mused Will as he skimmed through the rest of the article. "Piper? Who did you get this information from?"

Piper inspected her fingernails.

"I can't remember," she stated simply. Maxson rolled his eyes.

"Oh stop it. It's obvious to me what's been happening, and I only regret that I assumed you to be too ethical to stoop to that kind of impropriety from the start," ranted Arthur. "It's clear that you've been siphoning information to her to help further her career. _Or_ that she's been coaxing information out of you in exchange for...wanton favors!"

"Wanton...?! You listen here, pal," threatened Piper, waving a finger in Maxson's face. "I'm not some kind of floozy that sleeps my way into getting information! I've _never_ _bought _any kind of _favor_ in my _life_. Especially from him!"

"Well if not from him, then who? It had to be someone in that meeting, and I trust everyone on my team with my life," declared Maxson.

Piper clenched her teeth behind a very thin smile. Every inch of her was itching to get her hands around Maxson's neck. Because it was true: Piper had never gotten a single ounce of inside information, not even the faintest hint of a story from the General concerning important matters. Nor had she ever gone to him for help. The two had agreed long ago that each other's work were independent ventures, and they wouldn't compromise ethics to help each other.

Ironically, it had been a certain sympathetic Brotherhood scribe that had given Piper the details of Maxson's outburst at the last Convention meeting— at no small risk to herself. The Codex of the Brotherhood didn't have a very forgiving stance on quote-unquote "traitors". That's when Piper realized:

Maxson wasn't here because he was concerned about journalistic ethics. He was here because he was _scared. _He probably trusted the people who worked for him about as much as he trusted her. No matter who gave the story to Piper, there was indeed a person on the inside spilling the beans— that was all but confirmed. Maxson was here making sure there weren't any leaks on his own side that he had to plug. But she wasn't about to expose her confidante just yet. So she went quiet, though this did nothing to quell Maxson's anger.

"I thought so," sneered Maxson. "I expect no less from this rag sheet. No standards, no professionalism, no—"

"That's enough, Maxson," interrupted Will sharply, just before a fuming Piper was about to kill a Brotherhood Elder. "Get on with it. What do you want?"

"Firstly, I want you to rescind this issue of the _Publick_ and freeze any outstanding deliveries you've made."

"Ha! Fat chance!" laughed Piper. "Even if I wanted to, that ship has sailed."

"Then I want you to publish another story correcting your own mistake, with an apology to the Brotherhood of Steel," Maxson ordered.

"You can't tell me what to publish!" yelled Piper. "You might have the Commonwealth Journal under your thumb, but you're not going to corrupt the _Publick_'_s_ integrity!"

Maxson shot Will a look that said _can you see what I'm dealing with? _But Will shook his head.

"She has the right, Arthur," said Will, folding his arms. "Freedom of the press— that's one of the first points we agreed on for the Constitutional Convention. Besides, it's the truth. All the information in that article is 100% accurate."

"How convenient we've only come to agree on points now when it benefits you," snarled Maxson. "And not when it's something crucial to the future of the Commonwealth."

"Oh for…" Will threw his hands up in exasperation. "We're not talking about this. Not now."

"Then when? This wouldn't even be a problem if you hadn't just held up your own end of our agreement—"

"The accords are still being written, nothing's been ratified yet!" snapped Will. "It's your own fault for assuming I'd ever agree to something like that!"

"Yet you previously _agreed_ that the Minutemen would aid the Brotherhood in hunting down and destroying all remaining Institute assets!"

"I said that the Minutemen would lend their resources in efforts to apprehend Institute _criminals _who escaped justice!" Will contended. "And if you're unsatisfied with what we've done to those people already…" He trailed off, unwilling to comment further. A dark, sorrowful look came over his face.

Two hundred souls: men, women, and children. Those were what remained of the Institute after the Minutemen vaporized their home: squatting in the ruins of Lexington before they were discovered by passing traders. The poor refugees were brought into safety, fed, and clothed and most were happy for it. Few had caught a glimpse of the terrors of the surface world, and weren't excited to see any further. They thought the worst had come and gone. Then, the Brotherhood and the Minutemen got involved. Little did the Institute remnant know that the Commonwealth had tasted their blood and they were thirsting for more.

They called it the trial of the century. In truth, it was more like sending brahmin to slaughter. Of the two hundred survivors that were lucky enough to escape the destruction of the Institute, only eighty remained after the trial. The rest were lined up against the outer side of the Wall (no one wanted to give the condemned the honor of dying within the confines of the city), and during a three day period of public executions, painted the Great Green Monster a bright shade of red.

Of course, there was legitimate justice done. Justin Ayo was shot. Alana Secord was shot. In fact, almost every member of the Institute's infamous security branch, minus their children, was found guilty and summarily executed. Dr. Zimmer, the missing head of the Synth Retention Bureau, was found guilty _in absentia_, with orders to this day to arrest on sight.

But as the tribunal executed their final SRB defendant, they soon found out that culpability among the rest of the Institute remnant were harder to determine than those who'd seen a quicker trial. There were others that still had most of the Commonwealth split on their final judgments. There were those that were involved in the Institute's schemes to a lesser degree, yet they were executed as well. But there were also those that claimed ignorance, but couldn't prove it to the tribunal. And so, in a morbid attempt to play it safe, they were sent outside the wall as well.

Piper still recalled the final days, where the Institute showed the Commonwealth they were indeed the monsters they thought they were. She remembered the talented painter who had traveled all the way from Somerville just to watch the trial. While it proceeded, he would soon find a job as a courtroom artist, as Piper commissioned the man to paint the proceedings. They were very good. When he was finished, Piper had his paintings printed in the Publick. There was one that she'd never forget— the one made on the day the tribunal sentenced thirty people to death.

The whole trial, the apprehended Institute scientists, in spite of an entire Commonwealth calling for their heads, remained the picture of officious, quiet dignity, even while on stand. They seemed coordinated, sharing the same stories and testifying the same information. Diamond City Security even had to separate their holding cells because of feared coordinated attempts at perjury. But when it became clear that the tribunal had no interest in their stories and more interest in revenge— when a bloody end outside the wall approached, they became wolves. Her stomach still churned when she saw that painting; now, it was burned into her brain.

The twisted, screaming faces. The hard, accusatory fingers pointed at anyone in reach. The tears and desperation, the betrayal, calling for the heads of the only people they had ever known. The ugly, pained expressions of fear as the "guilty" parties were dragged off to their deaths. Pain, fear, and hatred captured perfectly in crushed berries and oils, painted deftly to reflect reality.

To Piper, that painting held a truth. And in some ways, William Lamont, who served as a key witness during the trial and ended up recusing himself, held that silent truth to himself heavier than others: that these people were dying for nothing. In spite of all they did or didn't do, the Commonwealth forced these people into killing each other.

Although she'd never say as much, Piper realized that even though the Commonwealth "won" the trial, they had lost a part of themselves that could never be restored. She still remembered throwing up from desperate relief after the tribunal finally recognized that _children_ could not be held accountable for their parents' crimes.

The remaining survivors— and survivors they were once more— the truly ignorant, the low-ranking scientists, and the children were split into two groups and separated, so they could never conspire with one another again. One group of survivors was sent to Airport City, and the other group was sent to Sanctuary, where they would be allowed to integrate into the Commonwealth as citizens, provided they lent their skills to their community. And though they were subject to the same distrust and fear their fellow scientists had imposed on the Commonwealth, they were allowed to live freely— under close supervision.

"What are synths but crimes against nature?" challenged Maxson. He was one of the many who had gone on record as not being satisfied with the final judgements, wishing for more blood spilt. He started quoting, as if from memory: "_Any and all beings identified as 'synths' are to be deemed enemies of the state, by right of their own abominable creation, and therefore must be destroyed where they stand, so as not to—_"

"Put it to a vote," growled Will. "If you're so hell-bent on passing this through, put it to a vote with the committee, and we'll see just how the Commonwealth lies on this issue!"

"William—"

"I will not, nor will I _ever_, agree to something that will actively threaten the liberties of the Commonwealth's citizens! Do you want to see people turn on each other again? Do you want to send soldiers knocking down people's homes, rounding families up for questioning? Or is that what you've already been planning for with the Inquisitors?" Will snapped. "You can't identify a synth. No one can!"

"The Inquisitors are to be a self-policing force for the Brotherhood, nothing more!" A barefaced lie. Even Maxson looked slightly embarrassed at being called out.

"And ferals are just ghouls without manners," shot Will. A phrase that was becoming more and more popular in the Commonwealth these days, thanks to a certain mayor of Goodneighbor.

Maxson frowned. "We can argue about policies as long as you'd like. But at least when we have a disagreement, I _expect_ it to be privy to only those involved. _The last thing I need is for it to appear in the damn NEWS!_" he roared. Both of Will's eyebrows raised, and Piper flinched slightly. Sensing he had brought the energy up too high, Maxson cleared his throat.

"We are in the middle of something great here. We are trying to create a new _sovereign state_," said Maxson. "That has not been done in a very long time."

"And?"

"And?! Public opinion is everything! Sensitive information leaking out can swing our carefully laid-out plans in disastrous directions!"

"So what does that have to do with my paper?" asked Piper incredulously.

"You, and _your_ paper..." began Maxson, gesturing wildly to Piper. "...are painting the Brotherhood of Steel as villains! You are swaying public opinion based on a collection of..._lies!_"

"I don't know if the big metal ship you live on has windows, but if they do, you might want to look out of them sometime! And you'll see for yourself what good the Brotherhood's been doing to the Commonwealth: maybe you'll know what your own soldiers are doing down in Bunker Hill…!"

"Rumors and speculation!" blustered Maxson.

"Speculation?! We have several eyewitnesses who said they saw the whole thing!"

"And I don't suppose you would care to name them?" demanded Maxson. "To let the Brotherhood cross-examine their legitimacy?"

Piper ground her teeth. "_No. _I would _not._"

"Thought so." Maxson turned to Will. "If you can't see how her paper is hurting what we're trying to accomplish, then we might as well just end this all now."

Will sighed. Piper knew— from moody dinners and frustrated rants, that negotiating with Elder Maxson was akin to arguing with a brick wall. And as much as Will cared about the Commonwealth, there was a certain appeal to ending their meetings with the Brotherhood of Steel.

"Look, she can't rescind the story, and I won't let you compromise her press freedoms by issuing an apology— it'll only seem like it was ordered under coercion. But, I do believe that you have a point, and that having a clear leak of information poses a security concern. So I'm sure that Piper will _agree_ that from now on she'll refrain from publishing stories about what happens during Convention meetings ever again."

Piper was about to open her mouth to protest— _Fat goddamn chance of that. _That was until she saw the expression on Will's face: Bite the bullet, champ. Say yes, and get this bastard out of our house. So Piper swallowed her pride.

"Fine," she grumbled half-sincerely, rolling her eyes. Not a very strong 'Fine,' but Maxson seemed content.

"Satisfied?" asked Will. "Then get on with it. Because I have a feeling you didn't just come down here to scold Piper over her newspaper."

Maxson wheeled towards Will, staring him directly in the eyes, getting close enough so Will could see every line and detail of the scar on his face. It was an intimidation tactic. And sure enough, it often worked. Will, however, had seen enough scars in his lifetime.

"I've heard.." began Maxson slowly, his voice slowly building into a fiery crescendo. "...that the Kingsport Polytechnic opening is scheduled to proceed as planned?"

"That's correct," said Will.

"Even after I've made it clear how I stand on this issue: your _illegal_ settlement is opening on Brotherhood land, is that right?"

"It will be, as of tomorrow."

"Right, then listen to what I'm about to say now," said Maxson, raising a finger. "I'm giving you one last chance to do the right thing. Have your troops stand down at once, and cancel the event tomorrow. We will convene at another time to discuss the proper fate of Kingsport."

"And if I don't?"

"You don't want to know what happens if you don't" snarled Maxson.

"If you think there's anything to discuss, Elder Maxson, you're sadly mistaken," said Will. "Kingsport Lighthouse belongs to the Minutemen."

"You treasonous _bastard!_" Arthur roared, spittle flying into Will's face. "You have some nerve! Kingsport Lighthouse had been ours since the Prydwen flew into the Commonwealth!"

"You're a bad housekeeper, Arthur," spat Will. "_You_ let Kingsport sit unoccupied and allowed the Children of Atom to move in rent-free, threatening the safety of Salem. _You_ stood by as Minutemen lost lives taking it from them. And now you have the _audacity_ to demand it back?"

"That was our outpost! Furthermore, you _knew_ we were ready to begin construction on Kingsport! We declared it months before…!"

"You let the Atomists take over, I put a stop to them. And the Commonwealth doesn't need any more of your military bases."

A big ugly vein popped on Maxson's forehead, adding another layer of texture to the scar over his eye— it looked as if Maxson's entire right side of his face was throbbing in anger.

"I'm giving you an ultimatum: cancel the Polytechnic opening tomorrow, and withdraw your troops from the area, or I'm shutting down the accords."

Will crossed his arms, standing defiant against the Elder.

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

For a moment, Piper was certain Arthur would have clocked Will in the face. He probably would have if she wasn't present. Instead, Maxson immediately whipped around, and stormed straight for the front door, obliterating everything in his path.

"Arthur—"

"_No_," flashed the Brotherhood Elder. "We have nothing more to discuss."

As he swung the door open, he turned around to issue one last statement to Will:

"I won't forget this breach of trust. And you _will_ pay for it."

The front door whipped closed with a punctuating slam, signaling the end of Arthur's visit, leaving both Piper and Will a little stunned as to what had just occurred in their living room.

"He's bluffing, right?" asked Piper. "He wouldn't throw away the last two years of planning for one settlement, right?"

"Course not," said Will, picking up a coat rack that Maxson had knocked over. Piper frowned. He sounded sure, but he wouldn't meet Piper's eyes.

"You sure you did the right thing?" she asked.

Will looked at her, about to reply...then something else from behind Piper grabbed his attention.

"Oh for…" Will groaned. Piper spun around. From the top floor overlooking the staircase, the heads of both Nat and Shaun that had been hanging upside down over the ledge to spy on the grown-ups' conversation quickly popped out of sight, as if they hadn't been there at all.

"_What did I tell you about doing that?_" scolded Piper, quickly charging up the stairs. "You better not have heard anything! _Get back to bed!_"

The two were huddled together at the base of the staircases ledge. They'd clearly been listening for a while and had been climbing over each other to get a better view of the conversation.

"But we we're just—"

"_Zip it!_" she ordered, pointing a finger to their room. "Move it, or you're both grounded!"

Shaun and Nat dismally returned to their bedroom, both sulking. She didn't care. Better not to test Maxson's fury any longer, though Piper knew that if he ever came back down to Home Plate again to shout at Shaun and her sister, she'd personally see that he'd return to the Prydwen in crutches.

* * *

Sam Gordon was having a nice dream. He was back in Whiskeytown with his brothers, as they were just finishing repairing the family barn. A dust storm had come and gone, taking a chunk of the roof with it, but thankfully none of the family's Brahmin. _Thank god for small miracles_, his older brother Jay said. The work was hard and pain-staking, and Sam and his brothers were baking in the hot sun, shingling a re-constructed roof. But despite his pain, there was something about the shared suffering that endeared him. Listening to the dirty jokes told by Jay and the dirty stories recounted by Rob, sharing laughs with each other; it made Sam forget about the pain.

It was almost sundown when their Mother called out from the house to get back inside for supper. Jay and Rob climbed down hungrily. Sam, however, took a moment. He stood back, looking proudly at the repaired roof. What was once a gaping hole had been patched and rebuilt due to handy craftsmanship of the three brothers. He felt satisfied— no, complete. He looked up to the sky, wanting to drink in all the sun he could before it disappeared.

And that's when he looked at the sky and realized that the sun wasn't going down at all. The sky itself was on fire. It was burning red, angrily radiating off an intense heat that permeated far beyond Sam's skin, boiling his insides with a fiery, hateful inferno. The fire rose within him, until it burst to the surface. Every time he opened his mouth to breathe, flames would shoot out. His hair was catching fire, his skin was crackling and roasting. But oddly enough, there was no pain. He was scared. Confused. He looked towards the house, where his brothers would surely be, running back inside for a warm meal. Instead what he saw was himself and his weeping mother standing a few meters away from their home...standing over two graves.

And that's when Sam woke up with a start to the resounding sound of a particularly loud ringing phone. He cursed, reaching out and fumbling blindly for the receiver on his bedside table. He answered the call.

"Hello?" he muttered, barely awake.

An obnoxiously cheery voice blared in his ear:

"_Howdy, Sam! Victor here, giving you your ol' courtesy wake-up call._ _It is currently 0500 hrs, and the boss needs everyone down at the lab!_"

Sam groaned, sitting up. "Is it Phase Four?"

"_Yep. Looks like we're about ready to begin operations, so you better skedaddle down here right-quick._"

"Alright Victor, I'll be down in a minute. Thanks."

"_No problemo, partner. And just let me say, it is a pleasure to—_"

He hung up, silencing the robot abruptly. Rising from his bed, he silently cursed Mr. House's hokey robotic servant— although he had no good reason to dislike Victor other than that he was a Securitron, Sam did find his radiant positivity obnoxious albeit insincere, he suspected. He had decided a while ago that nothing built or programmed by Mr. House could ever be trusted.

Yawning, he stretched out, slowly opening his sandy eyes to his surroundings.

_Home sweet home_, he thought sardonically, looking around his hotel room. In truth, this was probably the best place he'd ever lived in. It was huge, he wasn't fighting for personal space like he was when he was a kid in a cramped shack in Whiskeytown, or in the stuffy NCR barracks at Camp McCarran. He'd never felt a softer bed— true, he had lived a spartan-esque life, but even compared to the beds they had down in the brothels in Reno, these were a mile beyond. Every amenity was at his disposal, with a case stocked with books and magazines and a fridge filled with every kind of spirit available. Even the toilet shone brightly.

Sam realized that he was, for now, living better than 90% of the citizens in Vegas. But for some reason, he hated it. As pleasures go, this one felt so temporary— like a last meal served before an execution; like the fattening of a calf before a slaughter. He had no love for Vegas, after all.

Sam stood up from his bed, and walked to the window. He pulled the curtains apart, revealing the picturesque view of Vegas that he was so "fortunate" to have. In truth, Vegas was anything but picturesque. Vegas was a thin crown on an ugly head.

Someone once told Sam that Vegas was like a tar pit. Once you got in, you'd find it awfully hard to get out. And even if you did, it would always leave a black stain on you, to remind you of its scummy center. And if you didn't, you'd sink to the bottom of the pit, drowned and forgotten like so many unmarked graves in the Mojave desert. It was a fine metaphor, but one for which Sam thought was slightly accurate. No one ever willingly jumped into a pit of tar. Not like the countless tourists did every day. Not like General Oliver had, on the orders of President Kimball, drawn to Vegas like honey.

In truth, Sam thought Vegas was a spider web. A vast, intersecting maze of strings all leading to the center, the Lucky 38. And House did love it when the flies so willingly flew into his web. Like he had, thought Sam.

Working for Robert House was like working for God himself. He was everywhere, careful that you'd toe the line. Benevolent, if you served him well. Ruthless, when you disobeyed him. And he was constantly watching, either through the many security cameras posted on every wall in the Lucky 38, or through the patrolling Securitrons that roamed the hallways of their own hotel, fit to go to war at any moment.

Sam leaned over and reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out his "Earplug." To anyone who'd search through Sam's personal belongings, the object looked just like an ordinary cigarette lighter. But thanks to NCR ingenuity, it served a more valuable purpose.

Upon ignition, the lighter would temporarily knock out any small initiated electronics in the immediate radius for about six minutes. Perfect for deactivating any bugs Mr. House had surely hidden away in the small crevices of his room somewhere.

Sam held the lighter up, as if it were a torch being used in a dark cave. He flicked the flint wheel on the device, and instead of producing a flame, it made a small beeping noise. It had done its job, supposedly. Of course, as usual, he never had any reassurance that the thing _had_ done its job. It's not as if he'd suddenly hear the slow chirp of a listening device deactivating. Perhaps the room wasn't even bugged at all. He'd never know.

All he knew was that so far, he wasn't strung up and dangling off the Lucky 38 balcony just yet, so he was definitely doing something right.

Sam looked at the electronic clock on his desk. Instead of showing the current time (which according to his own watch was an ungodly five-oh-one in the morning), its digits were locked at "00:00." That wasn't much reassurance for him, but it would have to do, he supposed. He walked to the bathroom.

The bathroom was even nicer than the bedroom, in his opinion. As far as commodes went in the wasteland, your choices were limited. Even in the NCR capital of Shady Sands, city-wide plumbing had yet to be instilled, and most poorer citizens were still doing their business in the open, in sewers and culverts. With its perfectly polished interior and warm, heated floors, Sam reckoned if General Oliver had seen the toilets inside the Lucky 38, he might not have surrendered to the Courier so easily that day.

Sam carefully lifted the toilet cover off of the tank, placing it down gently as he reached for an object inside: a bulky object wrapped in a plastic bag, floating in the water. He never felt more vulnerable than when he did this. It reminded him of when he was a child, and he and his brothers would try to sneak cookies from the kitchen, carefully on a lookout for their mother.

He grabbed the object from the water disdainfully, ignoring the gordian-like knot on the bag that he had tied to keep water from leaking in, and instead ripping it directly open. Sam still wondered if they'd ever get suspicious that he was taking so many plastic bags from the supply closet. Reaching into the plastic, he pulled out his prize: his radio. He grimaced. Unlike the lighter, Sam knew there was no explaining this if someone had kicked the door down. Having this anywhere _near_ him was a death sentence; a date with House's personal executioner.

He decided he'd talk fast then. He turned it on— as it was only made to call and receive from one location, he was connected to a channel right away. Sam held the radio up to his mouth, and quietly began to talk:

"Breaker, breaker, come in Phoenix, this is Einstein. Do you read me?"

There was a moment of pure, silent static. Sam frowned. Someone must be asleep at the wheel. Before he could say anything else, a voice finally answered him:

"_We read you Einstein. Standby_."

Sam groaned. It was a young voice. Probably a green-around-the-gills clerk straight out of basic training. Last thing he needed right now was to talk to somebody with zero clearance.

"Phoenix, please go for secure line Grizzly One, I authenticate: channel six one nine dash three, over."

"_Erm… okay… standby…"_

Sam frowned. This _was _a new guy. Things were getting sloppy back at home, and the thought of that made Sam worried. After a few seconds of rustling and hushed conversations through static, a new, yet familiar voice suddenly came on the line.

"_What advice did one bear give the other bear?_"

"Two heads are better than one."

"_That's a copy. Good to hear from you, Gordon. What's your window?"_

"Likewise Grizzly," said Sam. "About four minutes, so I'll make this quick. I just got the go-ahead: Phase Four is currently underway."

"_Goddammit," _sighed Grizzly. "_What's your current status?_"

"Got the heads-up call a few minutes ago. They're expecting me down at Site Bravo any minute now."

"_Copy...standby._" Sam heard the rustle of paper and pens being gathered, and someone screaming orders in the background. He'd dropped quite a bomb on their heads. "_Please relay your last known information regarding the primary objective._"

"Phase Four has been ascertained to be a highly classified operation put together by designation Monarch, the exact scope of which is currently unknown. I have learned that Monarch has suddenly decided to initiate Phase Four after two years of inactivity; I was put on notice for the project's revival only yesterday. Phase Four involves the use of the prototype molecular relay that I had been hired to work on. Though the technician team has been kept mostly in the dark, it is common knowledge that Monarch's molecular relay prototype will be used to transport the individual known as designation Copperhead to the following coordinates— standby."

"_Go ahead, Einstein."_

Sam walked back to his bed, reaching into the bed frame of his mattress, retrieving a small torn piece of paper with numbers on it.

"The coordinates are as follows— 42.3601 degrees North, 71.0589 degrees West." There was a short few seconds of the sound of furious writing.

"_Copy that."_

"Consulting pre-war maps, I have determined the location of these coordinates to be the city of Boston, in the New England Commonwealth. I recommend pulling files from the last scouting reports of that area. If I remember my middle school classes correctly, I'd say… Laurie Party, 2246?"

"'_Out east, we found but more of the same.' That'll be a fun read. What exactly is Copperhead supposed to do in Boston?"_

"That, I can't say," said Sam. "The only one privy to that information is our friend and head scientist, Dr. Reeves, and she's made a big show of keeping her mouth shut. The rest of us just keep guessing. Speculation ranges from simple scouting, to retrieval, to assassination… we can't say for sure, but from the way Monarch talks about it, Copperhead won't be back for a while. It is important to note that Monarch has personal history within the area, from pre-war records."

"_We'll look into that, Einstein. What about Project Butterfly? Is the prototype still functional?"_

"Well, it's doing what it's supposed to, which is flinging a mass of molecules from one point to another. Keeping them intact and sending them to the right place, however, is a different story. There were many trial runs with live subjects early on that ended with the said subject dead, insane, or just plain missing— god knows where. There was an accident involving Copperhead's arm a while ago, I believe I've briefed you on that already, but we think we've identified the problem since then. We've also improved the prototype's latent accuracy. Last night, we shot a Bighorner to the coordinates I just gave you. While the tracking beacon did confirm that it arrived in Boston, there was no way to track the subject's vitals from that distance. All in all, its still probably the best teleporter the wasteland's ever seen."

"_But is it viable?"_

"Can't say. I wouldn't hop in it, that's for fucking sure."

"_So how will that affect the operation?"_

"Well right now, we're estimating a 70% chance that teleporting Copperhead to Boston won't rearrange his DNA or scramble his brain. This has been deemed an 'acceptable margin' by Monarch."

"_Roger that. Any activity from Copperhead?"_

Sam felt his eye twitch.

"Not that I've interacted with him thus far. He's not exactly a fan of the technician team, having killed a co-worker for the arm incident. From what I gather however, he found out the same time I did that Phase Four was being revived."

"_Can you objectively __supposite_ _as to the sudden urgency?"_

"Again, therein lies the question, Grizzly," said Sam. "I can only guess that this is all happening because of something that Monarch learned only yesterday. And now, with him reactivating the molecular relay...it just seems so..._decisive…_… Grizzly, are you there?"

He waited for a reply, but only silence answered him. Ten seconds passed by, and still, no Grizzly. He held his ear closer to the radio, trying to piece together what was happening over the static. He thought he could hear a faint discussion occurring.

"Grizzly, are you there?" he repeated. For a moment, an icy cold wave of fear shot down to his balls as Sam considered that House was jamming his signal, with a team of Securitrons ready outside, waiting to breach his door. But then, a new voice suddenly came on the line.

"_Agent Gordon?_" the voice asked. It was an old, tired, familiar voice.

"Who is this?" he asked brusquely.

"_This is Eagle._"

Sam raised an eyebrow. Yes, he did know this voice. He hadn't spoken to the head of NCR intelligence since the man personally recruited him to the program.

"Sir."

"_We hoped to have a clearer picture of House's 'Phase Four' by now, but it seems as though gathering information is not feasible anymore. Whatever Phase Four is, we cannot let House's plans to develop any further."_

"Sir, with all due respect, attaining information, technical or otherwise, is still feasible. There's still plenty to learn besides Phase Four," said Sam.

"_What House plans on doing now is potentially critical. The fact that he is willingly allowing the Courier to leave his side implies great significance to this operation. Ipso facto, it can't be allowed to continue if we are committed to weakening his position in the Mojave."_

"_As of now, your new mission is to sabotage Phase Four by any means necessary. And that includes using the nuclear option._"

Sam froze. "...Sir?"

"_We need to end this, agent. House's tyranny has gone on long enough. Taking out Phase Four is one thing. Taking out House all together is another."_

Sam sighed. The moment had come then. "I see…"

"_It's time to take the mask off, son,_" said the General. "_If you can make it to the safe house before nightfall, by all means, make like the wind and godspeed. We will have evac waiting for you if you do. But if not...if you're made before then...you know what to do._"

"Yes sir, I do," said Sam somberly. "I understand. God bless the New California Republic."

"_God bless it, God bless you. It's been an honor, Sam. Hopefully, the next time we talk will be in shadier sands."_

"Likewise sir. Give my regards to the people of Whiskeytown. Tell 'em the Gordon brothers got theirs in the end," Sam said firmly. He glanced at the bedside table. The clock had switched back on. The bright red numbers stared him dead in the face.

Sam almost shat himself, wasting no time and grabbed the radio with both hands. Forcing all of his strength and will, he barely heard the other voice respond before he snapped the radio in two. A bright spark popped in his hands, but that was it. His only way of communication was now dead. It didn't matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore, he supposed. Except for his mission.

_So it's come to this,_ thought Sam, taking a moment to collect himself. His heart was pounding. He found it almost a hypnagogic moment, like the few seconds of deliriousness before you wake up from a dream. Two years spent spying on the greatest threat to the NCR since the Legion. Countless days putting together scraps of information. Numerous hours on the radio, in hushed conversation with his handlers back home. Now his radio was dead. And he wouldn't know if he'd ever spoken to another NCR citizen again after today.

He was the last of them. He had survived the longest. Colleagues came and went, and usually, they all went the same way. His coworkers dangled by their necks outside, and usually only came down when the flesh and sinew had rotted away, leaving nothing for the ropes to hold. If he strained a little bit, Sam could see their bones drift in the wind outside his window. Sometimes, he tried to count them all. Sam would never have guessed _he _of all people, as of now, would be the last. That the collective mission of every man and woman that hung outside now fell on him to complete.

And though he found it all so surreal, he wasn't bitter. In fact, he was almost… excited. Completed. At last, he could tear off his mask and give House and his Courier exactly what they deserved. Finally, his purpose in Vegas had been realized. There would be no need for an evac team, he decided. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.

He jumped up onto his bed, standing tall above the hotel room that was his mini-kingdom. Today, he was king, not House. Sam started rapping his knuckles on the ceiling, searching for that hollow echo. When he found it, he carefully pushed inwards on the ceiling tile, sliding it slowly out of the way. As he did, what he had been searching for spilled out of the ceiling onto his bed. Bricks of orange putty, carefully taught and encased in saran wrap. He had a small mountain of these things.

It had taken years for the pile to get this big. Every month, waiting for dead drops, collecting what he could. A pinch here and a fistful there. Every month, scraping it into stolen test tubes, soda bottles, and even condoms. Some of it, he'd manufactured himself through the strength of his own ingenuity. This was an even more arduous process, stealing the necessary materials and chemicals from the research labs— again, a pinch or so at a time. He'd mix it under the cover of darkness, in safe houses and drug dens, far from the watchful eyes of his employer. Soon, he'd think to himself, he'd have enough. And now, as of today, he just might.

Sam carefully picked up a pack of Semtex, weighing it in his hands, calculating the numbers in his head. One placed on House's prototype— he'd burn down all the progress he'd made over two years in one day. A few more pasted onto select load-bearing spots; he'd been studying the blueprints of the Lucky 38 ever since he arrived, so he knew exactly where to put them. Though there was no possible way to access the antechamber where House's body was kept, he could blow the floor above it, burying the despot in rubble.

_Five is all I need,_ he thought. _Five packs, and the House goes bust. _And if he had to stay behind to make sure it blew, what of it? It wasn't every day that you got to kill a tyrant. It was only fitting that you went with them, to provide testimony to the devil.

But there was still the question of how would he kill the Courier, he wondered. From all his wildest fantasies, such a method would probably be suffering, bleeding him little by little till he died a slow, painful death. Sadly, that likely wasn't possible now. He'd have to take him by surprise, of course. Sam carefully weighed the brick of plastic explosive in his hand. Then, as if a sudden epiphany came to him, he placed it against his chest. The sixth kills the sixth.

_Hello, Courier Six, _Sam thought. He mimicked extending a hand in welcome. _My name is Sam Gordon, and I'm a spy for the NCR. I was sent here by my government to personally ensure that you go to hell._ He'd then pull the man in close, leaving little space between Six's body and his. Then, in one last vengeful embrace, he'd activate the charges. And the Courier would die.

And when he met Jay and Rob again on the other side, wherever they were, they'd draw up a chair and watch together as the Courier burned in front of them.

* * *

"You know what you are, Beancounter? You're a slave."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Wasn't meant to be an insult: it's the correct description of your job title. If you can even call it that."

Six stood in the Lucky 38 penthouse: his bosses office, and strangely for the first time in a long while, he found himself wanting to speak to his boss. Instead, what was presented in front of him on House's usual display monitor was the image of a nebbish, officious looking man wearing a visor and spectacles. This was Beancounter. Where Victor was meant to be House's artificial intelligence and liaison for all security and diplomacy related matters (that was, until House hired the Courier, moving Victor down to dealing solely with the interior security of the Lucky 38), Beancounter was meant to be a more numbers-oriented liaison— a computer program that House could order to sort and calculate the logistics and expenditures of all odds and ends while he could daydream and scheme.

Beancounter was not meant to be a diplomat. He was not made for long meetings with casino bosses and foreign generals and the Courier. In a nutshell, Beancounter was made to crunch numbers, not talk to people. Six was now learning this the hard way.

"Regardless of what you are, I'd appreciate it if I could talk to the _actual_ brains behind the operation. Or operating program." Six smiled at his little joke. "I got decisions for him that only he can make.

"I'm sorry, but Mr. House is currently preoccupied," said Beancounter, rather pompously. "I have been uploaded with his latest memories, allowing me to properly represent him while he is indisposed.

Six shook the rolled-up scroll of paper in his hands at Beancounter.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"Negative."

"This is my list of conditions for— hell, I'll say what it is, my list of _demands_ for the Phase Four job. Or the Boston job, or the whatever-you-want-to-call-it job" Six stated, talking slowly. "Point is, there are things I want in exchange for me doing said job. And if they're not met, we've got a problem."

"Understood."

"Which is precisely why I'd like to square things away with House before he shoots me off to the other side of the goddamn country, not his artificial errand boy."

_You're just like him, you know_, said the Right Brain. _Just another one of House's robots._

_Do me a favor and take a mentat, will ya? _said the Left Brain in response. _Don't let the other guy mess with our paycheck._

_I wrote most of that list myself you motherfu—_

"I'm sorry. As I said before, I have been uploaded with House's latest memories. In it are his last instructions regarding your compensation for the Phase Four mission. I will do my best to negotiate on Mr. House's behalf." Beancounter's nebby little face winked, and it made Six want to throw up.

"Where is he?" Inquired Six. "What the hell could he even be doing?"

"Mister House has been stockpiling reserve power needed to properly operate the Mark III Molecular Teleporter, in an effort to ensure you reach your destination safely. This involves disabling many superfluous programs, and Mr. House has seen it upon himself to temporarily deactivate all non-essential mainframe activity. Regardless, his last memories before he went offline have already been saved to my database. That is to say, even though House is not here, I speak with his voice," explained Beancounter. Six scowled.

"Tell me, in his last memories, did he specifically think about purposely avoiding negotiating payment?"

There was a short pause from Beancounter.

"No."

"Are you saying that because he ordered you too?"

Another short pause.

"No," stated Beancounter. "Shall we discuss your compensation?" Seeing no way out of this, Six let out a long sigh, and broke out his list.

"Whatever. So here's what I want…" began Six, unrolling his list. "60,000. Thirty now, the rest upon completion."

"Approved," said the robot.

"I want a 5% increase in my current benefits plan— medical, disability, life insurance, retirement, PTO— all of it."

"Approved for 3%."

"Fine. I want to double my shareholdings in the Casinos, and I want a firm lock on casino privileges. Let's get it officially in writing."

Beancounter hesitated for a moment— the systems in his head whirring, double

"Doubling your shares is approved, casino privileges are approved for one."

"One?"

"Just you."

"That's fine, I guess, let the other guys sort themselves out," mumbled Six, returning to his list. He can't believe he even let them take a look at his list. As far as he was concerned, if no one else's molecules were being shot across the continent, all compensation should be primarily for the Courier. "Speaking of which I'd like to order some renovations, pre-paid of course, for the Presidential Suite."

"You are unsatisfied with your current lodgings?"

"I want a hot tub. And an expansion for the common rooms. It's getting a little cramped in there."

Beancounter whirred.

"Approved."

"Thank you. Oh, and the pool needs to be renovated too, for once and for fucking all. I'm tired of hiking down to the Tops to use their pool."

"Approved."

Six cleared his throat. "Okay so, speaking of which, I need a room set up for Lucy as she… uh… has her kid."

"Please clarify for 'Lucy.'"

Six cleared his throat. This was going to be a hard sell, he thought to himself. Unlike Lucy, House (or Beancounter, he supposed) probably couldn't be swayed by stomping on a few Deathclaws. And also unlike Lucy, House played it safe. That was probably why this particular condition made the list in the first place.

"Lucy McKenna. Uh...also known as Red Lucy? I'd like her to be roomed in—"

"DENIED," blared Beancounter.

"—the Tops. Jesus Christ, man," bristled Six. "That's what he wants, right? He doesn't want any girls taking up here, besmirching the good name of the Lucky 38. Put her in the Tops, and he can forget about her."

_And where you can forget about her too, right?_ inquired the Right Brain.

_She ain't dying. Not your fault she's insane and wouldn't let you cover up_, said the Left Brain.

_And where you can forget about your kid… your other kid, that is. Poor Sarah. Least she didn't have to do it where there's Deathclaws drooling over your afterbirth._

_That's why we're doing this, dummy. And I don't see your point. Our dad ran out on us too and we're doing fine._

_Are we though?_

Beancounter whirred for what seemed like a full minute. Six was just about ready to drop the clause completely, until the robot finally spoke up.

"Approved," Beancounter said finally. "Temporarily."

"She won't like the sound of that. How about indefinitely?"

"Temporarily."

"Okay, I want majority ownership of the Tops."

"Denied."

"Now hold on. Ever since the previous GM bit it, the Tops has suffered a drop in visits, correct?"

"... This is true."

"That's because there's been a vacuum in leadership since Benny died, and they're all so fucking confused— you're welcome by the way— they don't know what to do. Let me wrangle in the Chairmen. I'll put Swank under my thumb, and trust me, you're gonna see the Tops at the top again."

In truth, Six had no intention of bringing the Tops back to its old glory. He had no intention of putting anyone under his thumb. The Tops _and_ Swank could both blow up the next morning for all he cared. But becoming the majority owner meant one thing, and that was that Six could finally erase his predecessor's legacy. Soon, the only thing that Vegas would remember about the late head chairman would be that of his slowly rotting corpse, tied to a crucifix.

There was a long, long pause. Longer than the previous ones. Six frowned. For a second, Six was sure Beancounter had checked out and stopped counting his beans.

"Approved on one condition," said Beancounter finally.

"What?"

"Retrieve Project ADAM, and the moment you return, you _will_ own the Tops."

Six's lips curled into a wicked grin.

"Beancounter old buddy," said Six with a sly wink. "You can count on that."

* * *

"I heard he walked into Nelson...killed every legionary there and burned it to the ground."

"By himself? That can't be true."

"It is true. I was across the ways at Camp Forlorn Hope. The men stationed there were about to launch an assault to help him, but when they reached the other side of the canyon, Nelson was already gone... as well as all the NCR captives they'd been holding."

"Scorched fucking earth… Jesus. I heard he took Hoover Dam practically by himself, but I didn't believe it…"

"There were Securitrons with him, but from what I hear from people who fought there— at least on the NCR side— the robots mostly got in his way."

"They say he killed Legate Lanius."

"_The_ Lanius?! Impossible!"

"Well, no one's seen the Legate since, not in Arizona or anywhere else. Either he killed him, or shamed him into defeat… which is more impressive, I can't say."

Sam exited the elevator, stepping into the antechamber of the Lucky 38's basement, where the rest of the Project Butterfly were in deep conversation. A group of about fifteen able-minded scientists— geniuses, really, all things considered, from all across the Western American wasteland...though primarily from the NCR.

His senior and lead scientist, Dr. Reeves, looked up from her clipboard to him. Gloria Reeves was an NCR migrant (some would say traitor) and was formerly one of the greatest minds of the Office of Science and Industry, and possibly all of the Republic. Her reputation in the field of quantum and molecular physics was far beyond the scope of anything the wasteland had ever seen. Sam often wondered how the NCR let her go so easily. Although from the way Reeves conducted herself, he suspected that she had been demanding checks the Republic likely couldn't write. House, on the other hand, had no such issues.

"There you are. And just where have _you_ been?" fumed Dr. Reeves, turning the attention toward Sam.

"Sorry, Doctor," said Sam.

"I hope you have a good excuse, because you were supposed to warm up the collider ten minutes ago."

Sam shrugged. "I have no excuse, it was a mistake. Won't happen again' he said. Although this was a flimsy deflection, it was better than the truth. _Sorry, I was busy planting these explosives on key locations in the building. Oh yeah, forgot to mention, I'm an NCR spy. Slipped my mind. Actually, if things were to go tits up— like today, for example, my orders are to kill you, Dr. Reeves. Anyway, let me on through and I'll plant another pack of Semtex on the teleporter and we can all die together. Sound good? _For some reason, that didn't sound like it'd go over well.

"I'd surmise that Gordon may have gotten lost," smirked Technician Figgis. "It's a _biiiig _building after all." Of all the people that Sam was most excited to let die in an explosion, Bert Figgis was probably the third name on that list after House and the Courier. A migrant from Dayglow, Bert Figgis had graduated at the top of his class from his time with the Followers of the Apocalypse, and he wasn't afraid to let you know that. He was a pretentious, smarmy, obnoxious know-it-all. He was also the biggest coward in the room; his big mouth immediately shut, and he became a quiet mouse of a man whenever the Courier entered the room. Figgis was smart enough at least, to fear him.

"Well, I do spend most of my time in my room," said Sam. "Unlike some people, who spend most of their time at Gomorrah." Figgis reddened.

"That's enough," snapped Dr. Reeves. "Thanks to Gordon, we're behind schedule. I've got a meeting to attend. I want everyone in gear and at their stations in two minutes. Durham, you're on terminal duty. Establish a beachhead on those coordinates. Sam, you're with him."

"Sorry, are we not doing a dry run?" asked Technician Durham. Durham was one of House's first hires, snatched up from Arizona shortly when the late Caesar decided to purge his lands of anyone that had intelligence beyond tribal. That was, before a brain tumor did him in. Ironically enough, in addition to being a nuclear physicist, Durham was also a qualified brain surgeon. "We already have the live subject prepped. We could see if our accuracy has improved," said the Arizonian.

"Are you insane?" snapped Reeves. "If you want to waste more time and resources by teleporting more _sheep_, I'd say you don't fully understand your orders. Unless you need _someone_ to remind you."

"No, I understand ma'am," said Durham quickly. "Just...spitballing."

"Clearly," grimaced Reeves. "In case the rest of you don't get it by now: this is what we've been hired for. Every simulation we've run, every schematic we drew up, everything we've worked so hard for: all that effort has been for today. Today is the day we earn our paychecks." The rest of the team nodded in agreement.

"So that being said, if we fuck up now in any way— it _won't _go well for us." Reeves almost sounded a bit nervous as she said that. Though she had good reason to be. Reeves had replaced Dr. Kenneth, one of OSI's former head scientists and a once-in-a-generation bonafide genius. He had single-handedly saved the NCR from crisis after crisis.

And yet for all his genius, he still couldn't construct a fully functional molecular teleporter, maiming one of the live subjects during a trial run. And unfortunately for Dr. Kenneth, that live subject happened to be the Courier. So for his crimes, he was murdered. His second in command, Dr. Reeves, shortly took his place as lead scientist. Now the crosshairs were on her, and if the Courier didn't make it one piece, she'd likely be the first person he'd come to with complaints. Luckily for Dr. Reeves, this also happened to be the day that the Lucky 38 and consequently every member of House's technician team blew up in a fiery explosion, so she didn't have to worry about that anymore.

"Everyone, get dressed and get to your stations. Thirty minutes until launch."

The team dispersed to their separate changing stations, as the men filed into one room and the women into another. Sam noticed the hurried attitudes of his coworkers— each of them, anxious to finish their jobs.

"Sam? You're going to get changed, aren't you?" asked Durham.

"Sure, in a moment," said Sam, setting down his bag, in which two packs of plastic explosives were figuratively burning a hole in. He'd wait until the rest dispersed. Then, he'd get _properly_ dressed.

* * *

"These are the last reports of the area," said Victor, handing Six a dossier full of files. "You're a lucky son-of-a-gun, partner. Normally our scouting probes signals are too weak for satellite imagery."

Six scoffed quietly, taking the dossier from Victor while he poured over the pictures on the table. House had sure gone to a lot of trouble to get these. Because Victor was right. Normally he _never _had intel this good. A lot of resources were being poured into the retrieval of Project ADAM; Six would have been lying if he said he wasn't feeling any pressure. He studied the pictures closely— aerial images taken from overhead probes, canvassing the entire Boston area. Looking at them, Six felt as if he was taking in the sights from above, as a bird would.

"Victor…" began Six. "How does a city take a direct nuclear hit and still have this many buildings standing?"

"Don't rightly know," said Victor. "And keep in mind, they didn't have House shooting down as many missiles as he could."

"I don't like the look of this," muttered Six, pointing to a vast, dark shape on one of the pictures. "This looks recent. Is this the Institute crater?"

"Correct."

"Someone must've really wanted these guys gone," he muttered, shaking his head. "That's a full payload; thing's practically glowing. Are we sure they made it out? Doubt I could barely salvage a lab coat from this."

"Well, the EM readings we've been doing have shown a large spike in electrical-wave data since yesterday. Air's practically thick with it."

"And so 'ADAM' lives, huh?" mused Six. "Christ, this one is even bigger. Is this a crater too?"

"In a sense. That's what the locals call 'the Glowing Sea,'" said Dr. Reeves, who was standing next to Six. "In simple terms, it's a hellscape of an uninhabitable highly-radioactive wasteland. Don't worry, we'll be landing you as far away from there as we possibly can."

Six-pointed at the labeled triangular-shaped mass on the map. "This looks like a giant stadium. What's 'Diamond City?'"

"That's the largest settlement in the area, and it just so happens to be a stadium. Giant population center. Major trading hub. There's more information in the file. They even have a bar or two, you'll love it," joked Victor.

"Yeah, I'll bring you back a t-shirt," said Six sardonically. "A settlement this big will be easy to blend into. Chances are, if anyone knows what happened to the Institute, they'll be in Diamond City. I'll start there, then."

"We'll be dropping you in on Main Street, here," said Dr. Reeves, pointing to a location on the map. "You'll be right on top of the crater. Mr. House reasons that there should be nothing left there to investigate, but there's no harm in looking. I'm told that you don't have a problem with radiation due to your Monocyte Breeder implant?"

"I _do_ have a problem with it," frowned Six. "Just because I can regenerate cells faster doesn't mean I appreciate them dying off."

"Well in any case, be warned for high levels of radiation in that area. From here, you're about a miles walk away from Diamond City."

"Alright," sighed the Courier. "Victor, I'm gonna need you to cough up some extra supplies. Stimpaks, Radaway— some extra ammo too. Radiation I can handle, but I'm not too stoked to meet whatever's living there."

"Done and done!" said Victor cheerily. "Will you be taking the Bozar with you?"

The Courier chuckled. "Trying to play it subtle, Vic. Gimme' Maria and the Lil Devil. I'm sure I can salvage something along the way if I have to. Besides: if anything, this could become a diplomatic mission."

Victor's screen buzzed for a moment, as he began to relay orders to his Securitron network. "Already on its way up from the armory."

"Thanks Victor. Alright then, Project ADAM. What do I do once I find it?"

Reeves turned to her Securitron companion. "Victor?" Upon her cue, Victor wordlessly produced a holotape, ejecting it out of a small slot underneath his display screen. Reeves took it carefully.

"Upon location of Project ADAM's files, you'll need to insert this holotape into whatever terminal it is being stored on," instructed Reeves. "Then, once it's in, you need to run the "System Scan" operation. This will copy any and all files on the terminal onto the holotape. When it's done copying, run the "System Takeover" operation. This will allow you to erase all data left on the terminal. You might want to write this down."

"What if it's not being kept on a terminal?"

"Unlikely. It's a _lot_ of data to not have electronically stored. In fact, Mr. House ascertains that any terminal used to hold Project ADAM will be of considerable size."

"As in… big?"

"Mister House currently stores his programming on a MAELSTROM C-M5 supercomputer— the kind you see in his penthouse. He reasons that if the Institute is truly working off his old schematics, the terminal used will be a similar model. So yes, quite big. In any case, _do not _lose this holotape," said Reeves, carefully handing it to Six as if it was made of glass. "It's very valuable."

Six took it gingerly, raising an eyebrow. It sure didn't look like a standard holotape— it was twice as heavy and jet black, with the patented words "LUCKY 38" engraved onto it. He slipped it into one of the pockets of his suit vest.

"I'll take it you're satisfied with the prototype ballistic armor vest I made for you?" intoned Victor.

"Fits like a glove, and made with love. I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, Vic," said Six sarcastically, patting his chest pockets. However, his appreciation was genuine. Though it looked as if Six could blend in easily with the snappy suit-wearing gangsters of Vegas, his suit vest differed in that it could protect him from a grenade blast at point-blank range. "Got any other goodies for me?"

As if on cue, a cart was wheeled into the room by another Securitron unit, as Victor made a presenting gesture. "Well, we got your standard travel kit— your canteen, some stimpaks, and anti-radiation drugs, 10mm and 9mm rounds, your "medicines," a handful of grenades (smoke and frag), your usual selection of knives… and we got this." Victor pointed to one of the items on the cart. "That there is a brand new state-of-the-art Pip-Boy. It's equipped with a two-way radio, uploaded with maps of the Boston Commonwealth, and has a few other tools you'll find useful. And of course, Maria and the Lil' Devil."

Six began packing away his supplies into his pack, and affixing the brand new Pip-Boy to his wrist. He took the two pistols in both hands, testing their weight and balance. They had become his favorite tools for clandestine operations like this. Especially Maria. She was a star-studded beauty glittering with jewels; an old flame of his. They'd met under different circumstances. She was the one that had brained him after all. Maria was a fickle woman, once in the hands of a bad man that didn't treat her right. Six, on the other hand, knew just how to handle her. He strapped the two carefully into his shoulder holsters.

Six motioned to one of the items on the cart: a bundle of steel darts with glowing blue tips. "What about those?"

"Those, partner, are _whistling birds_," Victor said proudly. "One of Mr. House's designs, made to counter situations where you're outnumbered. You load them into that new Pip-Boy of yours. You ever find yourself with your back against the wall surrounded by varmints, all you gotta do is just push that little button on your Pip-Boy, and the birds will do the rest."

"Victor, I get this weird feeling that you're sending me off to war," commented Six, loading the tiny darts into his Pip-Boy. "Again, if anything, I feel like this will be a diplomatic mission."

"True… but if I know you— and your operating record— diplomacy doesn't tend to last too long before breaking down."

"Heh. Fair point, I guess," smirked Six. "So how the hell am I supposed to get back after the jobs' done?"

"Ah, well. I'm afraid that our current prototype is only made to send, and not receive," said Dr. Reeves. "That is to say, we have no way of _automatically_ fixing your location from here and pulling you back."

Six rolled his eyes. "You're kidding."

"Unfortunately so. Such advancements, I imagine, would only be available through what we learn upon the retrieval of Project ADAM."

"So what? I'm supposed to navigate my way across the entire continental United States to get back to Vegas?" snapped Six.

"Hopefully not," said Reeves, digging into her lab coat. "We do have a few options at our disposal…" She produced a rolled-up manuscript, handing it to Six.

He carefully unfolded it. Carefully sketched diagrams and blueprints beyond his comprehension covered the vast pages, with different lists of instructions that Six knew he wasn't patient enough to read.

"Mr. House reasons that the increased spike of electrical wave data he's been reading from the area more or less confirms the existence of a fully-functional molecular relay. If you can locate and secure it, you'll need to build one of these…" She pointed at the diagrams on the manuscript. "It's a transmitter that will…" She deliberated, searching for the right words to explain it to the Courier. "...connect their teleporter to ours. Once you build one, you can attach it to the relay, and we'll be able to pull you back."

Six felt his heart drop. "I have to _build_ all this shit? I can't make heads or tails out of this goddamn novel."

"It is...complicated, but we are confident that you'll be able to manage. That being said, we are prepared for a contingency in case you're not able to construct the transmitter."

"And what would that be?"

"Well...I'm told there's a certain ghoul here that knows his way around machines. And a former Brotherhood scribe that has experience with advanced technology. If all else fails, they'll be able to communicate with you."

Six grumbled. Added company usually meant a smaller paycheck.

"Tell me something, Dr. Reeves..." began Six, tucking away the manuscript into his suit. "Why should I trust anything you R&D bastards make anyway? You don't exactly have a great track record."

Reeves huffed resentfully. "With all due respect, we've done the best we can. We've accomplished more in the last few years than the entire wasteland has in a hundred."

Six flashed his metal arm at the scientist.

"See this?"

"... Yes."

"_This_ means that you can do better. Call me a perfectionist, I don't know— if your inventions keep mutilating the people that use it, I doubt you're hitting your peak."

"I understand your reservations, and I assure you that we've made some significant strides in its efficacy. This prototype is just as we've come a long way since… well… uhm…" Dr. Reeves trailed off awkwardly, trying not to stare at Six's arm.

"Since you mutilated me, I remember," sighed the Courier. "Fine. We'll just wait and see how far you people have come. I just hope you're prepared to deal with the consequences."

"Y-yes I… I understand."

"Good," said Six. "How long 'till we're ready to go?"

"Twenty minutes," said Victor.

"Good," he repeated. "Who's got a cigarette in here?"

* * *

The weight of the Semtex against his chest felt Herculean; it was no more than five or four pounds, but right now it felt as if he had a Bighorner strapped to his body. It was strapped to a rig on his chest that was connected to the detonator, taped to his wrist. The nervous perspiration did nothing to help the secureness of it, as he could feel it slowly slip down his chest, inch by inch. He'd cross his arms frequently, miming deep concentration as he stood by the collider, while making sure it stayed in place. As for the one tucked between his thighs, Sam didn't even want to think about it. The bulge of the plastic explosive would be well hidden by the bagginess of his lab suit, but it wouldn't make it any easier to walk. He sighed in frustration.

He spent four years studying with the Followers of the Apocalypse. There would have been another four Sam would have spent getting his doctorate in nuclear physics, were it not for the war in the Mojave. Then it became eighteen months of ranger school. Two years on the Mojave campaign, which proved to be all for nothing. Then he was recruited by Eagle, and spent another eighteen months training to be a spy for the Office of Intelligence. This ultimately led to two years working for Mr. House.

Now here he was with Technician Durham, standing at a terminal fixing the coordinates for the mission of one of his primary targets, eighteen minutes until launch, and somehow the wait seemed longer than all eleven years put together. His patience was wearing thin, and he could feel his nerves start to get to him.

And he still had one more pack of explosives that he had to plant. The teleporter itself. Though it stood guarded by two Securitrons, and it would look strange if he decided to approach it out of the blue given that it was not his station. Sam decided he'd have to find a way to distract the room before he could get his hands on the prototype. Once he had planted it, all he had left was to find the Courier. Then it was a simple press of a button.

"Alright, coordinates are fixed. That's our job done. Now all that's left is to flip the switch," said Durham. His eyes drifted away from his workstation. "Oh Christ…"

Sam looked up. "What is it?"

"He's here."

Sam glanced towards the lift. Striding into the basement, an air of impunity following him as always, was the Courier himself.

* * *

_Dear Miss Gordon,_

_It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you of the loss of your son, Ranger Jason Gordon, who perished in the line of duty on the 3rd of February in New Vegas._

_I know that the passing of a loved one is one of life's most tragic moments, but sincerely hope you will find some measure of comfort in knowing your son served his nation with honor._

_Due to the nature of your son's duty within the Ranger Division, we regret that we are unable to disclose further details on Ranger Gordons' death._

That burned Sam up the most. It hurt that they wouldn't give a poor old woman closure. On the other hand, maybe it was better she didn't know. Better Maryanne Gordon lived the rest of her short life oblivious, taking small comfort in the fact that Jay's death was likely heroic, and at the very least quick. In truth, it was nothing of the sort.

It was a failed assault on Nelson that got him. They had tried to take the Legion by surprise. Turns out, the slavers were dug in better than they had thought. Jay was captured, and because he happened to be a ranger, he was strung up by the Legion; crucified and put on display, his agony shown bare to his fellow soldiers across the No Man's Land. That was the other falsehood of the letter. Jason Gordon was tied to the cross on the 3rd. He died twelve hours later, on the 4th.

That's when the Courier was sent to Nelson, to succeed where Sam's brother had failed. He did his job too well, burning the Legion camp to the ground. When the NCR soldiers reclaimed the camp, they found that even the captives hadn't been spared. Each man received their own bullet to the head before they were set alight. The charred, smoking bodies still strapped to their crosses, faces taught in suffering were proof of the Courier's "mercy." Perhaps he was vindictive. Probably, he was just lazy. And in spite of his crimes, he was rewarded for his efforts in helping the NCR and even given a firm handshake by Major Polatli. To this day, Sam still couldn't rationalize why the Courier couldn't have cut his brother free.

It was fun to pretend that the Courier was on _their_ side. Fun and stupid. Sam was the youngest of the Gordon brothers, but in many ways, he was the wisest. The family had grown up dirt poor in rural farm town Redding, and Sam's genius had always shown brightly amongst the rest. While Jay and Rob repeated the twelfth and eleventh grade, Sam was apprenticing with a philanthropic group of researchers. Maryanne was pleased. At least the boys weren't lowly miners or doing jobs with the Van Graffs.

While Jay and Rob donned their uniforms at the recruitment center, Sam studied nuclear physics with the Followers of the Apocalypse. While Jay had finished Ranger school, he was writing his dissertation. It was only until the first battle for Hoover Dam that Sam realized that his brothers could very well die. And Sam did so love his brothers that he decided that if anything, they'd die together. And so it wasn't before long that Sam swapped out his books for a rifle and joined his brothers in the desert.

He was in Camp McCarran when he got the news that his brother died. Come to think of it, he was in McCarran both times. He really did hate the thought of that place now. The second time he heard the news of his brother's death was the night before the Great Betrayal, with a brand new letter to give to Maryanne Gordon. She died the day after reading it.

_Dear Miss Gordon_

_It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you of the loss of your son, Lance Corporal Robert Gordon, 5th Infantry, who perished in the line of duty on the 7th of May in New Vegas._

_I know that the passing of a loved one is one of life's most tragic moments, but sincerely hope you will find some measure of comfort in knowing your son served his nation with honor._

_LCP Robert Gordon was killed in action, defending a vital substation from falling into enemy hands. His sacrifice will not be forgotten._

At least there were no mysteries there.

* * *

"Who's got a smoke in here?" asked the Courier out loud to the room. "Come on, cough 'em up. I'm looking at you, Figgis." The timid scientist cowered in his place, only replying very shakily that he quit smoking, and thus could not provide the Courier. In fact it seemed as if the whole room of scholars, scientists, and geniuses did their best to feign busywork, desperate not to meet his eyes.

Except one. Sam Gordon focused on his target intensely. Every calculation he had made was failing him now. All his plans, all his scheming for this very moment— he was coming up blank. All Sam could imagine was the sky— bursting into flames, full of hatred.

_His sacrifice will not be forgotten._

"Nobody's got a cigarette in here?" called out the Courier once more. "No one?"

"I've got one."

The entire room looked up to see Sam Gordon, standing to face the Courier.

* * *

"Thanks," said the Courier politely, as Sam leaned over to light his cigarette.

"Ah…" Sam shook the lighter in his hands apologetically. "Out of gas. Sorry, hold on, I got another."

"No problem," replied the Courier patiently, cigarette between his lips, dipping down once more to meet the fire of Sam's second lighter. As he came up again, breathing smoke, he frowned at Sam. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"You mean, outside of us working for the same boss?" Sam joked. "Nah, I don't think so."

"Heh. Fair enough," said the Courier, continuing to smoke in silence. He blew a small cloud into the air. In the background, Dr. Reeves was complaining that her targeting systems were offline.

"You know I…" began Sam. "You know I've been waiting a long time to meet you. Personally, you know."

The Courier raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. I heard a lot about you, you know," said Sam. "You're a legend back where I come from." Behind him, he could feel many eyes on his back, judging him and weighing his sanity. You didn't just make small talk with House's right-hand man. At best, you spoke when spoken to. But no one had ever struck up a conversation with the guy. Even the Courier himself seemed surprised. Maybe even a little confused that Sam was still talking to him.

"And where is that?"

"Whiskeytown, Redding," stated Sam, defiantly. He had admitted to no crime. Almost every member of the technician team was from the NCR. In fact, the Courier himself…

"No shit," said the Courier, surprised. "I'm from Redding too."

"I know," said Sam, with a knowing smile. "We've all heard about you."

The Courier nodded, a smile of his own growing. Surely, Sam thought, he was reveling narcissistically in that fact. Though it was true. He was well known, for many things.

"Well shit. What have you heard?" he asked, curiously inspecting Sam.

Sam leaned in close, keeping his voice low, with an oblivious tone.

"I heard you killed Cook-Cook. Is that true?" Sam whispered.

"Woah." The Courier smiled, impressed. "You did your research. Yeah, I did. Got a nice bounty for it too, though I did have to carry his head in my bag the whole day. Guy smelt worse than his brahmin."

"Wow," said Sam, feigning surprise. "That's incredible man. Back when I was still in the NCR, I used to read all about you taking on the Fiends in the _Daily Ranger. _Hey speaking of which, is it true you took down a whole squad of Rangers by yourself?"

"Which time?" The Courier snorted. "Rangers ain't so tough. Genius like you should know by now that those guys like to buy into their own press releases."

"But you did, didn't you?" asked Sam.

The Courier smiled guiltily, shrugging a little. "Yeah, I took down one or two. I also paint houses and do construction work. I'm a busy guy."

Sam looked at him closely. The Courier looked closely back at him.

"You take out any near Nelson?" he asked quietly.

"Ah. This again." The Courier shook his head, ashing his cigarette.

For a moment, Sam was confused. "What?"

"No, just I usually get this kinda thing asked of me, you know. Some people get upset. I get it. You know, a lot of people think that they can't have a rational discourse with me, and it's not true. I'm open to discussing it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Nelson captives," replied the Courier simply. "A lot of people were upset with me because, well, they didn't make it out. And you know, on one hand, I'm inclined to agree with them, it's a shame they were up there in the first place. Maybe if the situation was different, I would have helped them out but that's not how it happened."

"People don't understand, I was working with the NCR on orders of our mutual employer. It was important, at the time, that we maintained 'healthy relations' with our neighbors (as it was explained to me), and this meant lending a hand doing this or that. On loan, of course. Bounties, you know, Cook-Cook and the others? I don't know, it doesn't matter. You know, you people forget, I saved your fucking President. Although to be fair, probably would have done you a favor if I'd let him die. You know what I mean."

"Anyway, when it came to Nelson, I was instructed to assist this guy— Major Polanti or some shit. Says it'll do good to clear out our mutual enemies. Whatever, right? So I go to this Major in this shitty camp— he tells me he wants to assault Nelson, take it back once and for all. And he wants me to lead, you know? He's got maps and everything drawn up, he's going into detail. And I said, well shit, you know, if you really want this done, just give me an hour, hour and a half. Don't wake your guys up, you know? So he thinks, yeah, no sweat off his back, if I die I die, his guys get to nap. I name my price, he lets me do my thing.

"It wasn't a rescue mission, you understand? If he told me, 'Six, you gotta help me get these guys out, we need to save these guys,' those guys would have been saved. All he told me was that he was going to cover his ears and look the other way. If they're in pain, you know, make it fast. So whatever, I have carte blanche."

"I have my own problems with the Legion. I won't get into it, but they owe me a favor, which has since gone unpaid. So I made sure that… you know, my displeasure was heard. When I'm done, I look up, and those guys are still on the cross, and I won't lie to you, they don't look too good. One of them's crying, begging for his mother, begging for water. Trust me, I know the minute he got on that cross for more than an hour, he was a dead man. Anyway, three guys, three bodies to drag out of there, I figured it wasn't worth the backache."

He stopped to take a drag off his cigarette. The entire room was silent. Dead silent. Listening closely. Sam could feel his skin begin to crackle and roast.

"Besides, nobody said it was a rescue mission," finished the Courier, unapologetically.

Sam extended his hand. The Courier eyed him curiously.

"Thank you," said Sam. "For being honest with me."

To his surprise, the Courier took his hand.

"Don't sweat it."

"Is there anything else you want to say?" Sam felt the weight of the detonator under his sleeve grow heavy.

"Yeah, I do actually," said the Courier. "I think you need to buy a new lighter."

There was a loud explosion, and all was finally quiet.

* * *

"_Why would you do that?!"_ cried Technician Figgis. The man was beside himself, weeping like a frightened child.

"Calm down, Figgis. He was a spy," explained Six, spitting out his cigarette onto the floor, crushing it with his foot. The fact that he was drenched in blood did little to calm anyone else down. He holstered a still-smoking Maria.

"How could you know that?!" demanded Technician Durham. "The guy did nothing wrong!"

"Nothing wrong? Wrong. He _did_ do something wrong. See this?" Six said, holding up a small, bloody object. Figgis recoiled, looking entirely green.

"What is it?" said Dr. Reeves.

"This…" Six began, taking a second to wipe Gordon's blood off the item. "...is a small-wave electronics jammer. A mini EMP." The Courier tapped his forehead. "I'm twenty-five percent goddamn small-wave electronics. The moment he flipped this thing on, I blacked out for three seconds."

"The targeting system…" realised Reeves slowly. "It shut off just now!"

"That and my radio. Luckily, I got plenty of backup power," said Six. "By the way, has anyone else here ever heard the name Cook-Cook?"

He looked around the room, which was completely silent. The rest of the technicians were gathered around now.

"Nobody? No one from California?" asked Six. "Figures. Because they never released the names of Fiends leaders in the _Daily Ranger, _last time I checked. They didn't want civilians knowing about that kind of shit. I figure that kind of information is only available to, oh I don't know, NCR stationed here during the Mojave occupation and maybe… NCR intelligence? Oh, and then there's this…"

Six knelt down to inspect the fresh corpse. He took Gordon's limp arm, pulling back the man's sleeve. Taped to his wrist was a strange black device that looked eerily like a detonator, with a wire leading towards the rest of his body.

"Your friend had a little ace up his sleeve," announced the Courier. "I spied it on him when he shook my hand. And it leads to…"

He eyed Sam Gordon. The optics enhancer was kicking in now, he was beginning to see the wire underneath, long and snakelike, leading to a black mass in the middle— a bit damp, thanks to the bullet in his belly, it was hard to make out the shape. With one hand, he ripped the man's suit open. Strapped to the man's chest and abdomen was a rigged vest, strapped with a large, bulky package. Six gave it a tentative poke, feeling it's plastic consistency.

"Semtex," declared Six. "Perfect. And all of you _geniuses _were working with him the entire time?"

The gathered scientist stood with their mouths agape, clearly with nothing else to add. Six turned away from them, to Victor.

"You let a spy _this_ close to the operation," accused the Courier, spitting vehemently in the Securitron's face. "You endangered everything you were trying to accomplish. You put my life in this little rat's hands. You're not as smart as you think you are, are you? Or is there something you're not telling me?"

"Beg your pardon, partner, but I don't think I was involved in personally hiring Mister Gordon," said Victor apologetically.

"I'm not talking to _you_, you cunt of a machine," raged Six. "I'm talking to _you._"

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. The research team frightfully looked on. The Courier waited defiantly, standing his ground. Still, for a moment, there was nothing. And then, Victor's display screen flashed.

"Yes, Mister Gordon was indeed an NCR spy," declared Mr. House. "How _clever_ of you to finally figure it out."

"So you knew."

"Of course I knew, you _imbecile_," seethed Mr. House. "I knew from the moment he stepped foot into Nevada that he was a damned spy. Yet he was knowledgeable. Possessed the necessary skills for the task. And he was compliant enough to do anything I asked so as to not blow his cover. All the information I _let_ him gather was calculated, and deemed acceptable losses. Everything he reported back to his superiors was listened to."

"And all this time, you didn't tell me," fumed the Courier. He waved the bomb in the Securitron's face. "Did you know he was planning to _kill_ me? Huh?"

"I knew he was planning to kill all of us," replied House plainly. "Mister Gordon had been manufacturing explosives for years now, no doubt with the intent to one day bring the Lucky 38 crumbling to ruin on behalf of the NCR. Today, he planted four different bombs on key parts of the building. They were detected and neutralized within seconds."

"How nice of you. Meanwhile, you risked my goddamn life, letting this guy in— putting him in charge of shooting me over to Boston—"

"I am aware of the threat Mister Gordon posed," stated House unapologetically. "I doubted that he'd last long under your… careful eye."

Six spat. A large glob dripped down Victor's screen.

"You insolent little worm," growled House. "Do you think you can _intimidate_ me?! I've lived countless lives, a thousand times more than you. I've predicted apocalypses and wars. I created the greatest _martial force _this planet has ever _seen_. I am your _employer__!_ _Do you think you can threaten me?!"_

"Here's a threat for you, Robert," spat Six once more. "I'm not doing this job. Fuck you and your martial force."

Before Six knew it, seven more Securitrons were suddenly around him. They had been deployed within seconds, all coming out of his blind spots. He tensed. Two Securitrons were a hassle enough. Five were too many. Eight… House wasn't in the mood for playing games.

"You will be a good Courier and do as you'retold. You _WILL _do this job, and you _WILL _retrieve Project ADAM, and you _WILL NOT DISOBEY ME._" House was yelling now— a deep, shattering scream that rose from the depths of wrath: one that shook Six to his core, for House rarely became this furious for good reason. "_Or I will rip out your bastard's heart from his mother's corpse__!_"

And within another second, House was gone, and replaced with Victor's winking cowboy. It took him a moment to register his anger: he was taken aback by House's uncharacteristically harsh words. Six wasn't having it. He put both hands on the robot's chassis, shaking it violently.

"You slimy little fucker! Just wait till I get my hands on you! You want Project ADAM? I'll shove that holotape up your fucking cunt, you dead man! You're _nothing without me,_ you hear me?!"

"STAND DOWN," ordered another Securitron. "OR WE WILL SHOOT."

"Umm… s-sir?"

"_What?!"_

The technician team were huddled together, terrified. The one who had called out to him shakingly pointed to the blood on the floor. In absence of a corpse, was a vast puddle of blood. The rest of the puddle streaked across the floor, leaving a messy trail towards the teleporter. A fragment of intestine was smashed against the floor like pâté. There was a loud thud as Figgis fainted behind him. Gordon was still alive, and he was reaching towards the teleporter.

Six immediately released the robot, cocked his gun and walked over to his quarry, pushing the rest of the onlookers out of the way forcefully. He reached Gordon just as the dying man lay a bloody handprint on the teleporters base. Six put his foot down on the man's back. A gurgling groan of pain escaped the man's lips, and a puddle of blood grew from underneath his belly as Six laid his weight on Sam Gordon.

"Sorry pal. This ride's not for you."

A gurgle. A low groan. Sam was trying to say something.

"What's that?" asked Six. He held his pistol at Sam's face.

"Long live the New California Republic," gasped Sam finally; every ounce of will needed to deliver that rebuke as it came with a mouthful of blood as if to emphasize his loathing. Though the Courier could read it plainly on his face.

"Uh-huh," intoned Six. "Think they'll save you from this?"

He pulled the trigger.

* * *

The next thing Gordon knew, there was a bright flash. For a fleeting second, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his forehead, but it disappeared almost immediately. He then felt a powerful, driving force, permeating him, running through him like a freight train. Confused, he wondered what had just happened, until it suddenly dawned on him. His head had exploded.

In the few milliseconds that his consciousness currently lived in, a strong rush of emotion shot through him. A blind, seething hatred that burned white-hot. A nuclear fire that destroyed everything it touched. And yet, it only existed for a fraction of a half-second before it slipped away into blackness. Sam died with hatred in his heart.

He slumped to the ground, the last images in his mind being a smoking barrel, a wide, mad grin, the bloody remnants of his brains splattered all over the floor, and a sky on fire.

* * *

It took a few minutes to remove Gordon's body from the testing chamber and revive the faint scientists before the program was back on schedule. The Securitrons dispatched to the basement, however, did not leave, keeping a watchful eye on their subject, Courier Six.

He had only needed a few minutes to get ready. Mental preparation, as he called it. It looked as if he was fighting people inside his head. Clearly there was some pent up emotion left over from the incident that had just occurred. But the Courier maintained that he was fine and that he was ready to go.

The Courier entered the glass circular chamber, slowly stepping over the threshold. The prototype itself was a raised circular platform of sleek black metal. Thousands of different cords and cables trailed from the device, so it resembled something of a tree stump with many roots firmly planted into the ground. Raised above the platform like watchtowers were three, curved constructs, pointing to the sky, giving the whole prototype a trident-like appearance. In the middle of the circle, a surgical chair was set, ominously awaiting its user.

The teleporter hummed in monotone, welcoming his arrival.

"Please assume the seated position," said Dr. Reeves, reading from his clipboard. "When the procedure is initiated, we will release the anesthetic gas into the chamber, which will render you unconscious. Remember, it is vital that you inhale the anesthetic. You _must_ be asleep for the procedure."

"What happens if I'm not?" asked the Courier, strapping himself into the surgical chair. He wasn't scared of much. It took a lot to unnerve him. _This _was unnerving, he thought to himself.

"You… you don't want to know. Please just… inhale the gas," said Dr. Reeves.

Six reclined on the chair, looking straight up into the chamber's ceiling. It was strange. Above him, a clear, blue amorphous color was forming. It was like looking up at the sky. He squinted into it. It seemed to go on forever— a deep blue that permeated through the roof of the Lucky 38 all the way into the stratosphere. For a while he said nothing, only staring at the blue above him. He didn't even hear the voice counting down. The procedure had begun.

For a second, Six panicked. Every muscle in his body was begging to be free of this machine. He felt like he was caught in a trap, and he was a minute away from biting off his tail like a rat and running back up to his penthouse. The blue simply hummed in silence.

"That's normal," said Dr. Reeves, reading his mind. "The zeta field is unraveling, it's...getting ready to pull you apart at the molecular level"

_You're going to die in here, _he heard a voice say. _You're going to DIE IN HERE like a rat in a trap. You were a dead man the second you walked into this thing. You're GOING TO DIE. YOU'RE GOING TO DIE,_ it screamed.

Six didn't know what was worse. The fact that he was hearing this, or the fact that he couldn't tell if the voice was that of the Left Brain, or the Right Brain.

"Doc, is this safe?" he breathed, staring into the deep blue. It seemed to be staring back at him. He couldn't see their faces anymore, but he could still hear Reeve's voice. Gas was starting to fill the room, and a cold wave of fear echoed down his spine.

"Trust me Six, this is completely safe, I'm sure of it."

"Are you sure you're sure?" asked the Courier. "Because you should know, your predecessor was pretty sure of himself too. You remember him right? Kenneth?"

"... I do, yes."

"Really confident guy. But he was _terrible _at not having his throat crushed. By me."

There was a small, momentary beat of silence.

"I understand that. I guarantee you, you'll come out of this intact," she reassured once more.

"Good. Because if I get there and I'm missing another limb, when I get back, I'll kill you," warned the Courier, unblinking. "And you'll die, _screaming._"

The Courier took in a deep breath, letting the gas fill his lungs as much as possible. He strained to resist the urge to cough. It felt ticklish in his throat, if not slightly irritable, and smelled vaguely of noxious fruit. Nevertheless, he continued to breathe in as much as he could, as his eyes slowly dimmed. He felt himself drift, and drift, and drift until the sky was gone. Suddenly there was no more blue, there was nothing in front of him and the world was black in slumber.

And when the Courier woke up, something disastrous had happened.

The sky was on fire.

* * *

_Just letting you know, I will probably be changing the title of this story to something better upon the next chapter. Not a big fan of the current one. So don't panic if you can't find the Paperclip anymore, it'll still be there, just under a different name. Following and favoriting the story may help, but ya know ya do whatcha gotta do._

_Please leave reviews. Reviews feed my ego, and my ego drives my creative process, thus producing these stories faster. In all seriousness, your feedback is more than appreciated and valued. It's blowing my mind how many follows and favs I'm getting for just two chapters so far. I love you all. Please stay safe and wash your damn hands._


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